


Another Time, Another Place

by indigo (indigo_angels)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguments, At any point, Aziraphale to the rescue, Controlling/Coercive Behaviour, Crowley is not dead, Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Despite what Aziraphale might tell you!, Disablist Language (not from Aziraphale or Crowley), Discorporation (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gabriel is Awful in This, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Slight Canon Divergence, Tension, Violence, brief descriptions of torture, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 137,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24587371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_angels/pseuds/indigo
Summary: What if? Two words - so powerful.A slight divergence from canon sees a very different life for Aziraphale five years after the world didn’t end. Ostracised from Heaven, he now lives in a world with bookshops and Afternoon Tea, but without Crowley; a world in which he believes Crowley gave his life to save him.However, it’s not quite that simple, and maybe they can somehow get a happy ending after all???(They can, and they do. But let’s not tell Aziraphale that just yet. It’ll spoil the fun!)
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley and (Briefly) Someone Who Is Not Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Comments: 1066
Kudos: 408
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest, Tip Top Stories





	1. Loneliness was a Multi-Layered Beast

**Author's Note:**

> Angst with a happy ending and a slight twist of memoryloss!AU.
> 
> Tags will be added to throughout, but any warnings will also be in the Notes for each chapter.
> 
> Written as part of the Good AUmens AU Fest

Aziraphale slipped out onto the busy street and looked around him, surprised even after all of these years, at how busy Soho could get on a sunny Wednesday in June. He tugged on his pocket watch to check the time, but yes, even with these crowds he still had plenty of time to walk to the Tate Modern in time to meet Anathema, he’d given himself an hour after all.

He set off, winding his way through the meandering tourists with good natured patience. An hour… plenty of time to get there. Which was crazy because if Crowley had driven him there they could have been there in- and there he stopped, there, he actually felt his steps falter and a hand slap to his chest, right over his heart. There, his blood ran cold and a sickly sweat broke out right down the ridges of his spine, his corporation paling enough that a passer-by actually stopped, her dark eyes worried, as she looked him up and down.

Her concerned enquiries broke into the painful thumping of Aziraphale’s heart and he forced himself to push out a flat smile. “Ah, no, dear lady, I’m quite alright, thank you. Thank you so much, I’m perfectly well.” She wasn’t easily convinced, and so Aziraphale trickled a little soothing Grace her way and then forced his feet into moving once more, just as soon as she had turned back to her day.

Five years.

It would be six in August. Five years was such a long time in the lives of these mortals, but barely a blink for Aziraphale. Six thousand years he’d been on Earth, but these five had been the longest, the hardest, the most painful ever, as, not only were they the five following his ostracization from Heaven, they were also the only five he’d ever lived without Crowley.

It was odd. It wasn’t like he’d _ever_ spent every day, every year, goodness, even every _century_ seeing the demon, but still, all those years when they were apart it was still incredibly comforting to know that he was out there, somewhere in the world, and, if Aziraphale ever wanted to, he could just go and find him; somehow, they always found each other when they needed to. Of course, Aziraphale rarely did go looking for Crowley, it was always Crowley who had come looking for him, always when he was needed, or _wanted_ (Aziraphale reluctantly admitted to himself) the very most. It was hard not to wonder how many times Crowley had needed him and Aziraphale _hadn’t_ come to his rescue, one of the many regrets it was easy to collect in these five years of loneliness.

Skirting around the writhing mass that was Covent Garden, Aziraphale continued his way down towards the river and did something he generally tried to avoid – he remembered. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to remember any of it, remember every single part of his dear Crowley, it was just that it was so painful, so absorbing… sometimes days could pass with him in some kind of stupor of remembrance and he’d come back to himself, covered in a thin layer of dust, his eyes puffy and red and his heart _aching_ for what he’d lost. But today, in these crowds and this noise, on his way to meet with dear Anathema, well, he felt he could risk it, possibly.

_You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone._

Goodness, how true an adage was that? Aziraphale had always valued his rather complicated relationship with Crowley in all their years together: he’d appreciated the rescues, enjoyed the nights of alcohol and moaning about office politics together, welcomed having another being on earth who _understood_. But then, he’d also been far too drawn into what Heaven and Hell actually meant, what they stood for and how that involved Crowley and himself. Crowley, as was the norm, had worked it all out before him. Whilst Aziraphale had been _painfully_ slow on the uptake, Crowley had long realised that Heaven and Hell were just as good, and bad, as each other, just as good, and bad, as any particular angel or demon wanted them to be.

Aziraphale, for example, was obviously a pretty terrible angel, by Archangel standards at any rate, whilst Crowley, well, he was by far the best of them all. All of them, above, below and in between, and _that_ was what Aziraphale had woken up to, far too late.

Would it have saved Crowley, though? Waking up sooner? Could anything Aziraphale had done have saved his friend? He didn’t know, he couldn’t work it out, it had all happened so fast and been so utterly confusing… maybe he could have done, there must have been something, some point in time when he could have saved them both, but it was pointless going over it all again. Wasn’t it?

_ Tadfield Airbase – five years, ten months and six days ago… _

__

_A strange, mismatched group of figures stood around, dripping in confusion, on the runway of an American base just outside a sleepy village in southern England. It was a motley collection of individuals indeed: a group of children, an American witch holding hands with a pale young man who appeared to be on the verge of fainting, a Scottish witchfinder ignoring the wistful looks being thrown at him from his middle-aged companion. And an angel. And a demon._

_Abruptly, the silence was broken with a crackle of lightning as a jet of pure, brilliant white light struck the ground. The assembled crowd winced against the magnesium-bright flare, some of them shrinking back a little, even as the demon’s eyes flicked over to the angel, creased in worry. When the smoke cleared, a figure was standing in its place, the Archangel Gabriel, tall, good-looking, smug. His hair was dark and perfectly coiffured, his eyes an unsettling shade of lilac. He brushed the dust off his perfect suit and pointedly checked his watch._

_The air was filled with a dark rumble. The assembled humans staggered and clung to each other even as the angel threw his own look of concern to the demon at his side. A crack opened up in the_

_Earth, and through it rose a creature of nightmares, dark, squat, fly-like but, even as Madame Tracy recoiled in horror, everything changed again, the hell-monster was gone and, in its place, stood a neatly groomed, if eccentrically dressed, Beelzebub._

_Crowley stepped forward at that, and Aziraphale could feel the waves of anxiety washing off him. “Lord Beelzebub,” he offered up a bow, more subservient than Aziraphale had ever seen him, which in itself, portrayed the gravity of the situation. “What an honour.”_

_The look Beelzebub offered him could easily have curdled milk. Across the way, Aziraphale saw Brian side-step behind a scowling Pepper. “Crowley,” Beelzebub’s voice was echoed by a million flies, “the traitor.”_

_Even terrified and cringing, Crowley couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself, “Not a nice word...”_

_“All the other words I have for you are worse,” they turned away, dismissive, “Where is the boy?”_

_Gabriel had been busily ignoring Crowley’s attempts at ingratiation, his eyes skipping from one child to the next and then he pointed, “That one. Adam Young.”_

_Every eye turned Adam’s way, but he didn’t move, didn’t flinch._

_“Young man,” Gabriel was obviously doing his best to sound imposing. “Armageddon must restart. Right now. A temporary inconvenience is not going to get in the way of the ultimate good.”_

_Beelzebub’s hostile glare briefly flashed Gabriel’s way. “As to what it standz in the way of, that has yet to be decided. But,” and back to Adam, “the battle must be decided now, boy. That is your deztiny. It is Written.”_

_Adam blinked, unaffected._

_“Now: start the war!”_

_Silence. Crowley and Aziraphale both stared, desperate, at the child who was holding up, incredibly well, to the combined scrutiny of Heaven and Hell. Being the anti-christ certainly had its advantages._

_Adam cocked his head, thoughtful. “You both want to end the world, just to see whose gang is best?”_

_There was a pause, the incredulity was palpable between the Archangel and the Prince of Hell. “Obviously.” Gabriel’s generally punch-able face was even more punch-able than usual. “That’s the great plan. The entire point of the creation of the earth.”_

_Adam didn’t seem impressed._

_“I’ve got this,” Beelzebub stepped forward and bent slightly towards Adam, speaking as one might to an intellectually challenged goblin. “Adam, once this is over, you’re going to get to rule the world. Don’t you want to rule the world?”_

_Said world, well, the portion of it which was on that airfield near Tadfield, held its breath. Anathema and Newt’s hands tightened. Madame Tracy leaned, just a little, into Shadwell’s arm. The Them subconsciously edged closer together. Crowley and Aziraphale shared a worried glance. They all waited. Adam let out a long blow of breath, “It’s hard enough having to think of things for Pepper and Wensley and Brian to do all the time so they don’t get bored. I’ve got all the world I want.”_

_There was a pause. Gabriel looked as though he’d been slapped and then, “You can’t refuse to be who you are! Your birth and destiny are part of the Great Plan!” It was obvious that none of this made any sense to him and his frustration was rising._

_Behind Adam, Crowley rubbed his forehead, his eyes clouded in defeat, the fear set into the lines of his face, but Aziraphale stepped forward. “Excuse me,” hostile, lilac eyes sweep his way. “You keep talking about the Great Plan...”_

_“Aziraphale. Maybe you should just keep your mouth shut.”_

_Aziraphale noticed Crowley’s ripple of anger, but Gabriel’s scorn was far too much of an every-day occurrence for him to bristle at the slight. “Only, I’m not clear on one thing. Is this the Ineffable Plan?”_

_As Gabriel’s perfect face scrunched up in confusion, Beelzebub stepped forward; allies in the intended destruction of the World. “The Great Plan. It iszz Written. There shall be a World and it shall last for six thousand years and end in fire and flame.”_

_Incredibly, Aziraphale’s chipper demeanour didn’t flicker. “Yes, that’s the Great Plan all right,” he twisted his hands together. “Just wondering if it’s the Ineffable Plan as well?”_

_The silence was baffled. Gabriel’s frown deepened. “It’s the same thing, surely?”_

_To Aziraphale’s left, a smile edged along Crowley’s face. He stepped forward with a, “You don’t know,” whispered under his breath. He fixed his snake eyes directly on Gabriel as he and Aziraphale stood shoulder to shoulder with Adam. “Be a pity if you thought you were doing what the Great Plan said,” he interjected loudly, “but actually, you were going directly against God’s Ineffable Plan.” The silence from Gabriel and Beelzebub was deafening. “Everyone knows the Great Plan. But the Ineffable Plan is, well, it’s ineffable, isn’t it?” Crowley shrugged his thin shoulders. “By definition, we can’t know it.”_

_Another stretch of silence, Beelzebub being the first to recover. “But it iszz written!” Their shoulders were hunched, their fists curled, and their words were closely followed by Gabriel’s desperate, “God does not play games with the universe!”_

_Crowley laughed, his lip curled with bitter pity, “Where have you been?”_

_Silence fell again, heavy and cloying. Hearts neither Crowley nor Aziraphale needed beat heavily in their chests. Both Gabriel and Beelzebub had lost their righteous anger, neither seemed so assured any more. They stepped backwards, heads bowed together in consultation._

_“I’m going to need to talk to . . . Head office.” Gabriel shot a nervous glance upwards. “How I’m going to get ten million angels to stand down from war footing doesn’t bear thinking about.”_

_Beelzebub shuddered and leaned closer. “No? You ought to try to get ten million demons to put down their weaponsz and go back to work.”_

_The rest of their discussion was held in silent stares, Gabriel shaking his head in defeated anger before turning back to the angel and the demon watching him with breath held. “Well,” he straightened up, holy anger flickering in his irises, his hand flexing at his side. “At least we know whose fault this is.”_

_As one, the Archangel and the Prince nodded at each other before they turned, their gazes hard, to pin Crowley and Aziraphale where they stood. Aziraphale gave them a happy wave, his own anxiety crashing off him but Crowley, as ever, was faster on the uptake. He sprang forward, his motion blurred, even as both Gabriel and Beelzebub raised their hands and gestured forcibly. There wasn’t much to see, a green flash from Gabriel’s palm, a red spark in Beelzebub’s fingers, both of which slammed straight into Crowley’s chest as he flung himself in front of the stunned angel._

_He barely made a noise. Nothing more than a choked gasp left his lips as the light converged on him, knocking him back a step, closer to Aziraphale, and taking his legs from under him at the same time._

_“Crowley!” Aziraphale leapt forward as Gabriel and Beelzebub vanished themselves, but he was too late. The very tips of his fingers brushed the back of Crowley’s jacket and then – he simply disappeared and Aziraphale was left grasping at an empty space, a smoking tire iron spinning on the ground._

~~**~~

Aziraphale found himself on Waterloo Bridge, leaning against the heavy parapets and staring, sightlessly into the murky waters of the Thames. It had been that quick, that easy. One moment, Crowley had been there, and everything had been right with the world, the next, he hadn’t, and it wasn’t. And it hadn’t been ever since.

He took a long, shuddering breath feeling the ache in his chest that never, ever went away, the sob in his throat which was always too near the surface, and the anger… at the Heavenly Host, the Demonic Hordes, at himself, at _Crowley_ … Why had he done such a thing? How could he just leave like that, and sentence Aziraphale to an eternity without him?

He set his feet walking again, the dull thudding a stilted heartbeat in his ears. He was being unfair, of course he knew that, but still – the facts of the matter were plain: Aziraphale would rather have blinked out of existence at Crowley’s side, than labour on like this alone.

The Tate Modern loomed up in front of him, a place he’d always enjoyed visiting in the past (never with Crowley though, which was what made it a tolerable venue for this meeting) but there was no joy left in art galleries now. Or museums. Or parks. Victorian shopping arcades, cafés... even restaurants. For five years none of those places had afforded any semblance of pleasure to him, nothing in his life had. He continued on, he existed, but only in recognition of the sacrifice that Crowley had made for him. Aziraphale simply got through each day, one by one, waiting for the time when living no longer felt like crawling through Hellfire.

He wondered if it would ever come.

“Aziraphale!”

A voice called him, not the voice he longed to hear, never that voice, but he smiled anyway, loneliness was a multi-layered beast, it was a relief to shave the top layer off, even for a couple of hours. “Anathema, you’re looking lovely, have you been waiting long?”

In deference to the sunshine, Anathema had selected a table outside and was already sitting waiting with an afternoon tea spread out in front of her. She smiled, her eyes running over Aziraphale’s corporation, her concern for him equally vexing and comforting. “No, not really. But the queue was getting bigger by the minute, so I thought I’d order. I knew what you’d want, I asked for a random selection of sandwiches, the scones are date and walnut and today’s special tea blend is Assam, is that all okay?”

Aziraphale made sure he pushed out a warm enough smile, and not all of it was false. “It sounds perfect, my dear. Now, tell me all about Iris. How is she getting on? You must have some more photographs on your phone you could show me? I’d love to see her.”

~~**~~

An hour later, and Anathema was only just putting away her phone and her pictures, smiling as she poured them both more tea. She knew Aziraphale’s game here, it was the same one he played every single time they met up; get her talking about Iris and Newt and the cottage and Adam and Tadfield and he would run down as much of the clock as possible before they had to move into more difficult conversation topics.

It didn’t matter though, she had all afternoon to play with here, she always closed the shop at lunchtime on a Wednesday and tried to see Aziraphale every week. As already demonstrated, he was wilier than that, though. All of those years of keeping company with a demon must have paid off with the multitude of manners he had for putting her off, dodging her invites, ducking out at the last moment in a manner designed to preserve her feelings. She wasn’t fazed though, was never fazed. She could tell from Aziraphale’s aura just how much he valued her friendship, just as she could tell how much pain he carried in his heart, day after day. She could wait until she’d shown him two weeks’ worth of photographs of her wonderful daughter, and then she would, absolutely, get a chance to see how he’d been in the fourteen days he’d been avoiding her.

Another hour, however, and the plates were clear, the tea pots had been replenished twice, Anathema had suffered genuinely interested questions about every single possible scrap of her existence over the previous two weeks and now she could sense that Aziraphale was planning on making his escape.

“How have you been?” she’d found, over the years, that the direct approach often worked best with him.

Aziraphale stopped, everything, for just a moment, and then went back to dabbing daintily at his lips with his napkin, keeping his eyes on the little white milk jug. “Ah, fine and dandy, thank you. You know. Yes, that. Fine and dandy, my dear.” Unbidden, his eyes jumped from the jug to the hand on his arm and he let out a long sigh, sliding into a reluctantly defeated silence before admitting, “Yes, well, obviously, it could be a little better, but, well,” he looked up, a washy smile on his face, “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Anathema squeezed his arm and let out a washy smile of her own. “You want to tell me about it?” Sometimes he did, sometimes he opened up about the gaping hole in his chest and how he felt like giving up and crawling into a cave to hide whenever he remembered that Crowley was no longer with him. Today, however, was not one of those days and he shook his head, twitching an apologetic smile her way, hoping she’d understand.

“You want to talk about him, then? You know I always love hearing the stories.” She did. They’d led such an intricately woven life together, which Aziraphale seemed to remember every, single facet of, in perfect clarity. He could also describe an event so clearly, in such an immersive manner, that she could feel herself there, in the moment with them. It made her feel as though she knew the being she’d barely met before he’d vanished in front of them all, an act of self-sacrifice that should never have been possible from a demon. An act of self-sacrifice that continued to wound her angel friend day in and day out. But, she did love to hear the stories of their long, long acquaintance together on Earth. It helped her to flesh Crowley out as a character, to see him as Aziraphale did, to understand the love they had for one another, even if that love had never been spoken aloud.

It seemed it wasn’t one of those days either. Aziraphale’s eyes drew back to the milk jug and a deep wash of sorrow almost consumed his aura, Anathema slid her fingers down to the angel’s own and squeezed. “It’s okay,” she whispered, her throat tight. “I understand.”

She didn’t, she knew she never could, but she could try, and sometimes her silent companionship was all he needed as well.

__

Eventually, Aziraphale managed to calm the aching in his chest enough that he knew that he would no longer be staining his aura in too much sorrow for Anathema to allow him to leave. He adjusted his position slightly, turned to run his eyes over the river and smiled at Anathema’s continued attempts to keep him with her.

“And you’ve heard nothing? From them? Either side? Sensed nothing?”

Her concern for him was palpable, but redundant. Aziraphale shook his head, he suspected that Heaven had worked out that being forced to live on without Crowley was worse than anything they could ever throw his way. “No. I feel that-” and then he stopped, his hand crashing to his chest, right over his heart as pain, like a heated lance, shot through him.

“Aziraphale?” Anathema was already rising out of her seat, her brow drawn in panic at the way that the blood had drained from Aziraphale’s face.

He ignored her, pushing to his feet, his eyes fixed on the masses of people streaming up and down the embankment, and then he ran.

Aziraphale wasn’t bound by simple earthly issues such as fitness levels or stamina, but he didn’t like exercising, it made him feel hot and breathless and unpleasantly _sticky_. None of that bothered him, however, as he tore through the crowds of tourists, pushing and shoving, his neck craning, his senses tingling, an image in his head of what he’d seen, the _complete impossibility_ of what he’d seen, burning through his chest.

“Aziraphale!” Anathema was right behind him, he could hear her muttered apologies left and right as she tried to keep up with his mad scramble through the crowds, tripping over her own skirts, as she tried to keep him, or at least the chaos he was creating, in view.

The crowds parted a little, just outside Gabriel’s Wharf, and Aziraphale stopped, twisting desperately on the spot, twirling his ring around his little finger, his eyes, his senses, everything reaching out into the massing crowds. A hand fastened around his elbow and he jumped, heart soaring in hope, only to come crashing down again as he found himself looking into Anathema’s worried expression. “Aziraphale…!” she was flushed, out of breath, but Aziraphale couldn’t care.

“He was here!” he hissed, his fingers latching onto hers. “ _He was here!_ I saw him!”

Anathema’s brow drew, worry clouding her expression, “Who?” but Aziraphale was already pulling away, his eyes skipping, anxious mutterings drifting from his hips. Anathema hung on, “ _Who_?” she repeated and Aziraphale turned to her, his eyes barely settling on her face for a moment as they jumped from tourist to tourist to tourist. He tried to pull away again, but, never being a human with the necessary respect for ethereal beings, Anathema held on. “Who???”

For just a moment, Aziraphale’s eyes settled completely on hers and he saw the barely repressed shiver at all that divine attention coming her way. It didn’t last, within a second Aziraphale had wrenched his arm away and was hurrying off into the Wharf itself, his neck almost on a stalk as he searched. He threw a single word backwards as he dived into the masses once more. A single word, one which he knew that Anathema, witch that she was, would have completely expected and equally dreaded, to hear.

“Crowley!”

~~**~~

It was dark, and the South Bank deserted before Aziraphale began to even consider the possibility of a lost cause. He stood on the balcony of the National Theatre, Anathema at his side, staring determinedly at every slightly drunk human who tottered along beneath them at the end of their own night out. “My dear girl, I’m so sorry,” he repeated for at least the twentieth time since his wits had started to return to him. “You really should have been home hours ago. You’ll have missed Iris’ bed time and _everything_.”

“Of course I was going to stay with you,” she reassured for the twentieth time. He uncomfortably felt that she’d thought he’d been losing his mind.

“I did see him, though.” Aziraphale spoke to the darkness, infusing it with as much determination as possible, ever aware of the continued scepticism his companion just couldn’t cloak.

Anathema drew herself closer to his arm, winding her fingers into his coat and resting a cheek on his ancient jacket. “Grief can play cruel tricks on the mind,” she offered quietly, and Aziraphale huffed, quietly, against her head.

“Yes, my dear, I’m very aware of that. Which is why… well, it’s how I know that, this time, it was real.”

“Tell me again, what you saw.”

“It was him, it was just him. He was walking along the embankment, down-stream. His hair was much the same as it had been when you saw him, and he was wearing a t-shirt, black, of course,” he let out a little chuckle. “And that was all I saw, but it _was_ him. It was. The way he walked, everything. It was him.”

Anathema nodded. “I believe you,” and Aziraphale sighed.

“Well, I know that you don’t, but not to worry.”

They slid into silence, Aziraphale letting his eyes drift over the London city-scape since there was no one left on the embankment to scrutinise. “You know,” there was a wistful note to his voice. “Sometimes, I can still picture it, as it was in years gone by. Here, of all places, we were here when it was a hamlet on a clean and clear river. We watched it grow and burn and choke and rise again. I don’t know why London caught us both the way it did, but, somehow, it became _us_. You know?”

Anathema didn’t answer, but Aziraphale knew she was thinking of her and Newt and Tadfield.

“We have so many memories here,” his lip twitched as he remembered. “Good and bad. But together, always together.” He felt the squeeze on his arm against the raw pain of his words.

“And Crowley… well, he’s always been such a remarkable creature, so imaginative, creative, resourceful… stubborn… If there was ever a way he could get back to me, then he would. And if there was ever a place he would do it, then it would be London. I just know it.”

_But why would he hide on this side of the river? Why wouldn’t he come to me?_ Aziraphale shoved the disquieting thoughts away and sighed, turning to smile at his companion. “Well. It’s late, my dear, so late. Let me walk you to the station, there’ll be a taxi there that will take you home.”

They turned from the river and headed back towards the light and the noise, but Aziraphale knew that he would not be returning to the bookshop that night.

In fact, Aziraphale did not return to the bookshop that week. Nor the next. He only returned the week after that as he suddenly worried whether that was where Crowley had been headed, whether that was where he was waiting for the angel even now. He wasn’t, and it was a bitter blow, but Aziraphale forced himself to stay, to change his clothing and eat a slice of coffee and walnut cake before heading back to his daily walks up and down the South Bank. Crowley was nearby, he was absolutely certain of it, and Aziraphale was going to find him.


	2. He’d Known, He’d Known...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No extra tags or warnings for this chapter :) Thank you for the lovely response this story has got so far! I'm so thrilled. Hoping to update Wednesdays and Sundays.

Newton Pulsifer, had known, always really, that he was, well… a little odd. He’d never really understood why, never really understood what it was that was so different about him to always put him on the edge every social group he’d encountered, but had always been aware that he hadn’t been like _others_.

At school, he’d never fit in with the football boys, or the trendy boys, but, strangely, he’d never fit in with the nerdy boys either. He’d liked dungeons and dragons with the rest of them, he’d painted Warhammer and binge-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy as well, but somehow, he just wasn’t really seen as nerdy _enough_ to be an actual nerd. 

It was a little puzzling, but what had been even more so was the fact that it should have bothered him and yet, it never had. No one had ever been mean to him. No one had ever excluded him in a pointed way, it was almost like, as the collective society ran their eye across the world, no one ever even _saw_ him. Until Anathema of course.

His first thought on seeing Anathema, even as beaten up as he was, was that she was hot, and, as such, would not give him the time of day. She had though, because of the prophecy no doubt, and they’d even, well… _made love_. (Despite the point of life he found himself, when he and Anathema were happily married and had the most perfect of little girls together, well, he still blushed when he thought of the manner in which he had lost his virginity). And yes, he understood that Anathema had felt compelled to do that with the prophecies and all, but Agnes had only said the once, hadn’t she? And Anathema had returned for more. Much more. Anathema had seen him when no one else in the world ever had, and that made it all worthwhile, it made it all make sense.

His life, post-apocalypse, was shaping up to be so very different from how it had been before. He had Anathema, obviously, and he loved her more with every passing day, and Iris, who was a joy he never could have imagined. A successful business, a beautiful home. A community around him. And friends. Not hundreds of friends, he wasn’t really in the market for that, but enough close friends to make a huge difference to the young boy who’d had none, and one of whom – most bizarrely of all – was an angel.

Newt had been very cautious around Aziraphale at first. He’d well and truly had his eyes opened to the possibilities of the world that Saturday when he’d first arrived in Tadfield. Afterwards, some of the facts had become a little blurred around the edges, but he remembered Aziraphale with wings. And a flaming sword. And a look in his eye that was nothing short of horrifying. It had been hard to swallow the unassuming shop-keeper act after that.

He also remembered Crowley, and if Aziraphale with his weapon and wings had been bad enough, then Crowley with his hellfire hair, serpent’s eyes and a look of _murderous_ determination _,_ well, he that been another completely. Now, so many years after that day, Newt could look back in shame at the relief he’d felt the moment that the terrifying being had simply blinked out of existence. Now, after hearing so many of Aziraphale’s stories over the years, after recognising Crowley’s supreme sacrifice for what it had been, after recognising Crowley as another being who’d never really fit into the world around him, well, now Newt could admit that he felt a sort of _kinship_ with the hell-creature he’d never properly met.

Which is why, when he’d almost run into him on the riverside in South London, he’d instantly recognised him for who he was.

Newton and Anathema had a little shop on Upper Ground, just along from Gabriel’s Wharf. They sold goods over the counter and had a thriving internet business going on as well – just as long as Newt stayed away from anything electronic, that was. They sold, what Newt described as, ‘witchy stuff’, and lots of them: divining rods, pendulums, theodolites, crystals, all of that, but they also catered a little more to the tourist set with jewellery, garden ornaments, hand knitted scarves, hats and mittens, anything that could be taken home to China or America and given as a gift.

This had been Newt’s idea, a way to keep alive Anathema’s vision of the shop she’d always wanted, but at the same time, actually making enough money so that they could live. And they did, they lived very well on the profits of it all, helped, only in part, by the incredibly low business rent they paid. The angelically low rent, Newton suspected.

It was an ideal solution though. He and Anathema caught the train into London every morning and opened up. Iris came with them and one of them would look after her, take her for a walk, play with her in the one of the back rooms, whilst the other liaised with the staff, checked the shelves, served a few customers, looked through a few emails and generally kept things ticking over. Then, at lunch time, they went home again, usually all three of them, sometimes only two of them, and waited for the bus to take Iris along to the specialist nursery she attended every afternoon. Iris had Down’s Syndrome and needed a lot of extra care in comparison to most three-year olds, but she was making excellent progress and loved her new school.

It was, Newt felt, a perfect life. He got to spend almost every day with his two favourite girls and had, already, had far more input into his daughter’s life than his dad had ever had in his. Perfect. It also meant that he had Iris with him, toddling along uncertainly as he held her hand, when he, literally, bumped into Crowley.

Newt hadn’t been looking where he was going as he and Iris went for their walk. Iris loved people and animals and sunshine and flowers and the water buses on the Thames and everything really, and she also loved pointing them all out to her dad and asking him to name them for her. He was doing this now, dutifully watching where Iris’ finger went and reporting back on each thing she’d identified. It wasn’t that busy on the embankment, but she wasn’t always steady on her feet and so he was watching her carefully, making sure she didn’t stumble, trying to keep her moving so they could get back in time to collect Anathema for the train home.

He felt the brush against his shoulder and straightened up, worried that he and Iris had blundered into a vulnerable pensioner, but it was a far younger, in looks at least, man who turned his way, apology already tripping off his lips.

“Sorry mate,” eyes, covered by expensive Ray-Bans, skipped down to Iris for a moment and then back to Newt’s open-mouthed stare. “Didn’t see you there,” he brandished his phone as proof and nodded, stepping sideways and all set to continue on his way.

“Crowley?” Newt couldn’t help himself, Anathema had told him of the events of a few weeks ago and what Aziraphale had been convinced he’d seen. Up until then, they would have both put money on it being nothing more than the angel’s wishful thinking but now… how could it?

The man in the Ray-Bans had already stepped on but, as Newt watched, the thin shoulders draped in a black t-shirt tensed and every line in his body sharpened. He stopped, his neck hunching, sun glinting off the flame red lights of his hair, and slowly, he turned back again. The relaxed expression from before was gone, the sun slid behind a cloud and a voice, tight and undeniably fearful hissed, “What?”

Newt scooped Iris up and held her against his chest as he swallowed down the wave of apprehension that ran through him. “Crowley?” he offered again, far less confident this time. “It is you, isn’t it?”

There was a pause. The man in the shades looked conflicted, appearing to be torn between continuing the confrontation… and running for his life. In the end, he decided on a little of both, leaning in a bit, fixing Newt with a stare cold enough to make his heart stutter, even through the darkened lenses, before hissing out, “I know what you are, _demon_.” His gaze flicked to Iris and then back again, and Newt couldn’t help holding on to her just a little more tightly. “You stay away from me, you understand that? You can’t touch me anymore, none of you can.”

Newt’s forehead crumpled into a frown and he took a frightened step backwards.

“And you put that human child right back where you took her from,” and then the man in the shades was gone, turning and hurrying away, his long legs breaking into a run as he ducked across the Jubilee Gardens and out of sight.

Ignoring Iris’ protests at being held, Newt crushed her to his chest and ran himself, straight back along the embankment to the shop.

~~**~~

The atmosphere the in the back room of the shop was tense. Iris was sleeping in her buggy, missing Nursery for the day, her parents sitting close to each other on the edge of the IKEA desk, their arms folded, their expressions drawn. The shop was closed but that had not stopped Aziraphale from bursting in, concern radiating from every single angelic pore in his body.

“What?” his eyes skipped, frantically, around the room. “What is it? What’s the problem? Iris? Is she alright?”

All three beings in the room looked down at the sleeping child and then Anathema rose to her feet, grasping Aziraphale’s hand and tugging him into the single armchair in the corner of the room. “Iris is fine. We’re all fine. We just needed to talk to you.”

Aziraphale let himself be coerced into the chair, the worry still gnawing at him at Anathema’s strange behaviour, but that worry exploded into fury the second she stepped back from him and a glowing circle of sigils erupted around him. He shot to his feet, his eyes whipping through the complicated patterns, a tethering circle he realised, nothing more, but even so, the height of ill manners and not the way to treat a friend.

“Talk to me, my dear?” his voice was wrapped in layers of unconscious divinity, “Or trap me here?”

“Aziraphale…” Anathema was twisting her fingers, hovering right on the edge of the circle. “ _Talk_ to you…”

“Anathema,” Aziraphale could feel his anger, his fear, rising. “I don’t know what it is that you think you are doing here, but you need to let me out of this circle _immediately_.”

“I can’t. Not until-”

“Immediately!” Aziraphale could feel the Grace inside him, responding to the threat, swirling and coiling in his chest, spitting and fizzing, waiting for the opportunity to burst forth into the world. Anathema took a cautious step back and Aziraphale edged as far forward as he could, toes pressing against the confines of the circle.

“You won’t hurt us,” Anathema maintained. “I _know_ you.”

“Set me FREE!”

“You won’t hurt Iris.”

Through his anger, Aziraphale’s gut tightened and his eyes shot to the sleeping child in the buggy. Her eyes were fluttering, a crease across her forehead and her lips were pressed together into the most perfect rosebud as Mr. Bunny slept in her fist. Aziraphale’s saw her, _saw_ her, and his shoulders sagged, the anger retreated a little; the fear remaining. “Anathema…”

She stepped forward again, “We just…” a quick, nervous glance was shot Newton’s way, “Well, we just didn’t want you rushing off before, well, you’d considered things… really… All things.”

Anxiety spiked through Aziraphale’s corporation once more and he frowned. “Things?” he questioned, looking again at Iris and then Newt, “What on earth is going on here?”

“Well,” Anathema glanced at Newt herself, received a nod that seemed to bolster her nerve and then fixed Aziraphale with a steady gaze. “Newt was out today, a little while ago. Walking. With Iris. And… well… he _thinks_ … he might…”

“He saw Crowley…” Aziraphale breathed in for her.

There was a pause and then, “Yes.”

Aziraphale lit up inside. It was as if a thousand fireworks had fizzed to life inside him. He’d known, he’d _known_ , that, despite his continued searching drawing a blank these last few weeks, he’d absolutely known that it had been Crowley he’d seen walking on the embankment that day. The Grace was back, pushing at the confines of the circle, desperate, _desperate_ to get out and find him. He pressed his corporeal form against the bounds of the circle. “Set me free,” he repeated, his hands pushing alongside his Grace. “Please, my dear girl, _please_ , you have no idea how important this is to me!”

“Aziraphale!” Anathema’s face was twisted, her hands fluttering as if she wanted to soothe him. “I know _exactly_ how important this is to you! That’s why I created the circle, that’s why you must listen to us before you go searching for him.”

Ignoring her, Aziraphale focussed his attention on Newt, barely registering the way that the man cringed at Aziraphale’s Heavenly glow. “Where? Where was he? Where did you see him? How long ago?”

“Aziraphale!” Anathema stepped in front of him, her dark eyes blazing. “Listen to me! You need to listen to me!”

“I need to find him!”

“But something is wrong!”

Everything froze with those words, Aziraphale’s Grace didn’t retreat, but it did pause, waiting, listening, the fear back, stronger than ever – he couldn’t lose Crowley a second time, he forced it away. “Wrong? How do you know if something is wrong? You don’t know him, he’s a _demon_ , of course he’d feel wrong to you!”

But Anathema was shaking her head. “Aziraphale, _please_. I need you to sit down, and I need you to listen to me. Please. We need to do this right. For _Crowley_.”

It was the lowest of blows. What _wouldn’t_ Aziraphale do for Crowley? He stood, staring at her, feeling his chest heaving with breath he didn’t need. The moment stretched out. Iris yawned a little and shifted position in the buggy. Newt folded his arms tightly across his chest. Anathema stared, determined. Aziraphale took a breath, took another and then sat, corralled everything inside himself and tried again. “Tell me everything.”

They did. Newt taking over in a stilting and hesitant voice, to replay the encounter moment by moment, obviously doing his best to remember every single detail – despite the circumstances. Aziraphale appreciated the effort.

Once he was done, silence fell, but Aziraphale stayed perched on the edge of his seat, his brow drawn. “He said that _you_ were the demon?” 

Newt nodded.

“You think he meant it? You don’t think he was just being… insulting? Crowley could be very insulting at times…”

“He seemed frightened,” Newt admitted cautiously. “Of _me_ ,” he shook his head.

Frightened… Of course, Crowley could get frightened, had been frightened at many points in their long and tumultuous history. But of a human. Of _Newton_? “He’s obviously confused.”

“Aziraphale,” Anathema dropped to her knees in front of him, her fingers gathering his up in her own. “I think confused is the very tip of the iceberg, here. Something is going on. Why would he be in London after we all saw… what happened to him? And if he’s in London, then why hasn’t he called you? Contacted you?”

These were all questions that Aziraphale had already asked himself, thousands of times over the last few weeks as he’d walked the Thames’ South Bank.

“Why doesn’t he know he’s a demon? How can he _not_ know that?” Anathema took a breath. “And there’s always the chance that this isn’t even him…”

“It was him.” Aziraphale and Newton spoke as one.

Anathema nodded. “Well, we have to just tread carefully here, that’s all. We can’t run the risk of making it all worse.”

Aziraphale nodded and looked at their joined fingers. “Did you see where he went?” he asked, speaking to Newton. “After Jubilee Gardens?”

Newt shook his head. “No, but…” Aziraphale looked up, something in Newt’s voice awakening the hope in his chest once more. “He was wearing a t-shirt, a black one, and it had a logo on it. Just here,” he tapped over his own heart and Aziraphale straightened.

“A logo? Like of a place of business?”

“That’s right, yeah,” he swallowed again. “It was a little white one. Had a picture of a flower on it. It said, ‘Allium’.”

“Allium?”

“Yeah. It’s a flower. A bulb. A flowering bulb.”

Aziraphale looked confused.

“It’s a _florist’s_ ,” Anathema specified, holding her phone up to show Aziraphale the Google entry she’d searched, complete with the little red map pin shining brightly, not two streets over.

Blue eyes widened and jumped up to Anathema’s own, “He’s a _florist_?”

Anathema shrugged.

“And he’s _near_?”

This time she nodded.

“Oh,” Aziraphale glanced down at the circle surrounding him. “ _Please_ , my dear, _please_ let me go to him.”

Anathema nodded again and squeezed the fingers of the one hand she still held and Aziraphale realised what an act of trust that was, to enter the circle when he himself was so agitated. “Of course I will, in just a moment, but let’s think first, let’s plan. Do you really think, given what happened with Newt, that rushing in and confronting him with everything would be a good idea? Do you want him to run from us again?”

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop at those words, at that realisation. _Run from him?_ Would Crowley run from him? But then, Crowley had run from Newton, had been scared of Newton. Maybe Anathema was correct and there was indeed something nefarious underlying this whole thing. He frowned. “Do you have a better idea?” he asked.

Anathema smiled.


	3. The Only Answer and the Most Ridiculous Answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings - no added tags :)

Allium was a smart looking shop on a smart looking street. Narrow, and no doubt once one of the poorer districts of the South Bank, the houses there were now scrubbed and polished and worth millions each. There was a little row of shops in an otherwise residential area. Artisan coffee shop, a retail outlet for fine teas and coffee beans, a high-end delicatessen, a hugely overpriced gin shop and oyster bar and, right on the end, the little flower shop.

Aziraphale and Anathema stopped at the end of the row and pretended to check something on Anathema’s phone whilst they peered cautiously along the mostly empty street. It was late in the afternoon by this point, the golden sun slanting sideways along the cobbles, creating an image that would have been happy to find itself in the next ‘Corners of London’ calendar. Allium looked happy in its place at the end. A single, huge window looking out to the Georgian flats opposite, an awning, lilac and pristine, shading the rows of bucketed blooms from the possibility of a ravaging midday heat, the flowers themselves, standing neatly side by side, smiling in the afternoon glow, the sign, on the window itself, a twisting, cursive script in pristine white – but no sign of the demon who (may) work there.

“That looks like the logo that Newt described, doesn’t it?” Anathema was referring to the lettering on the edge of the awning, but her eyes were fixed onto Aziraphale.

“It does,” his heart was hammering so hard in his chest he was surprised he could even get the words out.

“Are you okay?”

He wasn’t, but he nodded anyway.

Anathema sighed and gripped his arm. “You know… you don’t need to-”

“I do,” Aziraphale’s eyes flashed. “I do need to. This is _exactly_ what I need to do.”

There was another squeeze on his arm. “You happy with the plan?”

Again, he wasn’t, again he nodded.

“Okay,” he could hear the determined smile in Anathema’s tone, “Here we go then.”

__

They walked across the quietly cobbled road, Anathema drawing her arm from his as they approached. She felt him falter, knew he could really have done with the continued support, but that wasn’t the plan, and, above all, she needed him to stick to the plan. For a moment, a sickly, swooping moment, she felt that Aziraphale was going to cave on her, to blast the plan to smithereens or maybe just run for it and ruin their cover for ever more, but he didn’t, he seemed to rally himself and, in a moment, they were there, Anathema heading for the propped-open door in the most casual manner she could manage, Aziraphale, as instructed, staying outside and pretending to peruse the blooms stacked in their buckets.

The shop was noticeably cool as Anathema stepped inside, with a pleasant damp and earthy scent. Darker too, and for a moment she needed to stand and blink, wait for her vision to catch up before she could get a good look around. It was small, as she’d expected, the area around the door, maybe two thirds of the first room, given over to customers, edged in a few more buckets of the most delicate of stems, a few house plants too, lush and verdant, lining neat little shelves of galvanised steel. The counter itself was solid and wooden, a tidy stack of brown wrapping at one end, a roll of shining cellophane at the other. There were racks and racks of ribbon behind it, a muted rainbow of understated shades, boxes of note cards, undersized buckets stuffed with little flags proclaiming, ‘It’s a Boy!’, ‘Happy Birthday’ and ‘Get Well Soon’. She stuttered a little herself then, she’d really not been completely sure what it was that she had been expecting, but this, this complete and utter normality? Well, it wasn’t that. She’d almost convinced herself that they were wrong, that Newt was wrong in what he’d thought he’d seen and they’d stirred all of this emotion up in Aziraphale for nothing, when a sound drew her to the far corner and a figure stepped in from the room beyond and, like Newton before her, she just _knew_.

He was tall, over six feet at any rate, with a mop of unruly russet hair which, although it may well have looked like it had landed that way over the course of the day, Anathema just knew it had been artfully mussed to perfection. He was wearing glasses, of course, dark tinted lenses and she fleetingly wondered how he could see anything at all in the gloom of the shop before she remembered. _Demon_. Ah yes. There was the snake mark just under the line of his hair, the final knot of proof which was helpful because the smile he was throwing her way just made all the doubt swing right back for another round.

“Afternoon.”

Twice, she’d only ever met him on those two occasions, both of which had been highly charged and definitely fraught, but even so, she knew that the Crowley of that time was far more suited to acerbic scowls and bitter sneers; this smile, natural as it looked, was off-putting. For a moment she almost looked outside to Aziraphale for confirmation, but she managed to rein herself in in time, plastering on a wide smile of her own and pushing out a sunny and friendly greeting to match his. “Good afternoon,” she nodded for good measure. “Another beautiful day.”

His smile widened, still looking like the most natural thing in the world and he tipped a slim hip up against the counter, folding his arms across his chest, obscuring his name badge as he did so. There was the black tee that Newt had described, covered this time in a dark green, heavy cotton apron, the ‘Allium’ logo stitched neatly into the front panel right next to that little white badge which, in the moment before it had been covered up by bare arms, had read, ‘Tom’. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” his voice was soft, sincere, “It’s going to rain at the weekend.”

“No?” Anathema could barely believe that, here she was, taking part in the very English custom of discussing the weather, in a florist’s shop, with a previously-believed-deceased demon. “Well, that’s a shame. It always rains on the weekend.”

He nodded sympathetically and then gestured around the shop. “Is there anything I can get for you? Something particular you’re after?”

_Some answers_ , she thought fleetingly, but then quickly hauled her head back into the game. “Flowers for a friend,” she was quickly back on script. “They’re not too well and need cheering up, so something… happy… but not, well, tacky, you know?”

Crowley (Tom? Anathema wasn’t really sure what she made of this situation yet) nodded and pushed off from the counter heading for the door and the buckets of blooms at the front and Anathema felt her heart lurch in sudden worry. “Whites?” he was asking her as he stepped outside and started rooting through the unattended buckets, “With purple maybe? Would look good against the green stems.”

Wondering where the angel had fled to, Anathema nodded. “Yeah. Lovely. Sounds good.”

“How much? I can do you a nice hand-tied for £40, with some purple tulips, these roses and these gorgeous alstroemeria. I can put some eucalyptus in there too, the leaves are such lovely shapes, and there’s water in the bottom, so it’s perfect for someone who’s not too well.”

His long-fingered hands were working at speed, plucking flowers from the buckets, discarding those not quite perfect enough, tall enough, fragrant enough, until he had quite the handful to flourish Anathema’s way. “I can wrap it in the brown, but with a sheet of lilac tissue in there as well, if you like. And then the cellophane to keep it all fresh, tie it with ribbon, it’s going to look _gorgeous_.”

He looked up, brandishing the flowers in front of him, his smile wide and curving, the tiniest hint of red across his cheek bones; Anathema was an expert at reading auras and this aura was nothing short of _happy_ , it was not what she’d been expecting. The happiness dimmed, though, as the silence built, and she could only stare at him and his dark glasses and his hopeful expression as it dissipated like the early morning mist. The hastily arranged bouquet drooped as his hand dropped and Anathema felt the pang of his disappointment hit her.

“I’m sorry,” she burst back into life. “I’m _so_ sorry, they’re lovely, I’m just…” she shook her head. “You were so quick at that, and it looks so beautiful, but yes, they’re just perfect, thank you.” It wasn’t enough, not completely, that incredible joyful enthusiasm had fled for good, but he nodded, content in her decision, and pushed his glasses a little further up his nose as he retreated back behind his counter and started arranging the flowers properly. Anathema followed him, taking advantage of his absorption to watch him, leaning up against the counter herself, noting that Aziraphale had returned from wherever he’d hidden himself and was back to watching them through the window, his face impossibly blank.

“You’re very good at that,” Anathema remarked as casually as possible and Crowley laughed.

“I’d hope so – it is my job after all.”

“It is,” Anathema steeled herself. “And is it your shop too? Are you the owner?”

She watched as his face scrumpled up a little, fingers still busy cutting and stripping and carefully placing each stem with the others. “Er… co-owner, I guess. Manager maybe?” and this time it was Anathema who laughed.

“You don’t sound sure?”

He shook his head. “No. I can’t say that I’ve ever really thought about my job title much. I just turn up here, do this…” he shrugged. “I suppose the money all comes from my… partner… though, so I suppose…” he trailed off, looking miserable and confused and embarrassed and Anathema tried hard to corral the uncomfortable squirming of her stomach as she forced herself to not look Aziraphale’s way.

“Partner? Like a business partner?”

Crowley nodded, “Yeah,” and just when Anathema was ready with her relieved exhale, he added, “And the rest.”

“Ah,” what else could she say? “Right. Sure.”

“Do you want raffia on this? Or ribbon?” The bouquet was almost done, standing very prettily on the counter in its cellophane wrapper and Anathema was having a hard time to get back onto the plan.

“Er, raffia? You think?”

Crowley just nodded and finished it off, turning it for her inspection and it was stunningly beautiful. “Oh, they’re gorgeous!” she couldn’t help it, despite everything else, they were.

She felt a sliver of pleasurable satisfaction leak from him, but it seemed that the conversation regarding his partner had sucked the joy from the entire room. He nodded and smiled at her, but, this time, she knew it was fake. “£40, then?”

“Of course.”

She paid up, hefted the flowers into her arms and turned to where Aziraphale was standing, doing an excellent job of absently staring down the street when Anathema knew that every sense he possessed was currently tuned into that shop with the utmost divine focus. “Thank you.”

He was already on his way back into the room at the back and he stopped then, pushed another false smile her way.

“Look, you don’t do weddings do you? Wedding flowers?”

He shrugged a little, “Yeah, course.”

“It’s just that these are so lovely, and I have this friend…”

Crowley shrugged again, “Sure. Ask her to give me a call.”

“Him.”

Another flicker of a smile. “Him. Whatever. Ask him to give me a call.”

And then it was Anathema’s turn to smile as she headed for the rectangle of sunshine that marked the road outside. “I will. Thank you.”

She stepped outside, her patient friend falling into step with her without a backward glance.

~~**~~

By unspoken agreement, they set off walking back towards the book shop, Anathema a quiet and steady presence at his side, which was a blessing, given the state of his twisting emotions. There was so much, inside him, vying for his attention. He’d stoically experienced so much standing outside on that quaintly cobbled street, staring in through the huge, picture window as Anathema chatted away. So much. It was impossible to start processing it properly, not when he couldn’t get past the two most powerful emotions which were currently swirling around inside him, taking their alternate turns to do their best to overwhelm him.

The first was relief, absolute, bone-sucking relief. Crowley was _alive_! After all of those years, all of that time being so completely and utterly _alone_ , he wasn’t alone any more, not really, not entirely, not even if his circumstances hadn’t seemed to have altered an awful lot in the last few hours. And _Crowley_ , the best of them all, of all Heaven and Hell combined, the one being that Aziraphale would always, always have chosen to come back to him, to stay with him, he was alive, he was here, he’d no longer had his life snuffed out in the blink of two immortals’ eyes. He was _here_ , in London, so very close by, and that brought Aziraphale back to the other emotion taking its turn with him.

Love. Devout, delicious, all-encompassing love. Stronger than Aziraphale had ever felt it before, deeper that he’d ever felt it before. He’d had to walk away, more than once, just to try and haul things back under some semblance of control, just before he started glowing, like a stupid angel, right there in the middle of the street. As soon as he saw him, as soon as that achingly familiar figure strolled into view, it was as if a missing piece of himself had slid back into place, the final jigsaw piece, the final number of a combination, and his entire heart had swung open in response.

Oh, yes, he’d known, in recent decades, that his love for Crowley had slipped from that general angelic love he was supposed to have for all things God-created and into something a whole lot more, and a whole lot more _personal_ , but still, it had never been like _this,_ like it was the only thing in the entirety of Creation that mattered, like he would do anything, face anyone, just for the sake of protecting this single being. It had been hard not to just walk in there and hold him and _kiss_ him, and it had been far more than the fleetingly entertained fantasies of years gone by, it had been a drive so real, so fierce, that he’d had trouble keeping himself from acting on it and ruining absolutely everything.

Because the long, silent walk back to Soho from Waterloo had finally allowed him to push that relief and love to one side long enough to realise that, by the time Anathema had steered him into his chair at the back of the bookshop and pressed a rather large measure of whisky into his hand, her assertion of there being something wrong was probably the understatement of existence.

“Are you okay?” Anathema, a glass of something amber in her own hand, had lowered herself onto the couch, Crowley’s couch, and was staring at Aziraphale with undisguised concern etched across her face. 

For a moment, Aziraphale pondered on how best to answer that, in the end, deciding to skip it altogether. Instead, he took a long swallow of whisky and then carefully met her concerned gaze. “He didn’t know me,” he offered steadily. “He didn’t know me at all. Either of us.”

Anathema pulled a face at him, “Well, I hardly believe that he could be expected to remember _me-_ ”

“He would have done.”

“But… well… are you sure that he had chance to see you properly?”

Aziraphale had remained outside the entire time, he’d been on one of his ‘pull yourself together, angel’ breaks when Crowley had stepped out to retrieve the flowers he’d needed for Anathema’s bouquet, the flowers currently standing, innocently on his desk in the corner, but even so. He’d seen those blank glasses curiously flick his way on more than one occasion, and yet there had been no glimmer of recognition in his expression, no second look, no spike of happiness or shock had left him. Aziraphale knew Crowley well, and knew that he was not _that_ good of an actor. Crowley simply did not know who he was.

“I’m sure.”

Anathema’s only reply was a terse sigh.

He sipped at his drink, a single, most dreadful of possibilities circling through him. He kept his eyes on the melting ice cubes. “Did you,” he cleared his throat. “I mean, you have _abilities_ , my dear. Ways of looking past the surface and-”

“One hundred percent demonic,” Anathema interrupted. “I checked his aura, and it’s as it was before. As far as I can tell, he’s still a demon.”

_Not an aardvark then_. Aziraphale’s mouth twitched at the memory.

“You couldn’t-” Anathema leaned forward in her seat a little, “I mean, you didn’t get that vibe from him?”

“Oh, no, I did, I absolutely did, my demon senses were tingling from right outside that shop, it’s just, well…” he’d wanted to be _sure_.

“So, it is him, _properly_ him, not some kind of mortal or _humanised_ him,” Aziraphale shuddered at her words. “And yet he doesn’t recognise you or even seem to see himself as a demon…”

“He’s lost his memories,” Aziraphale filled in for her, knowing that the words were both the only answer and the most ridiculous answer all at the same time.

Anathema looked at him, “But we saw him die…”

“We saw him vanish.”

“Vanish? But vanish _where_? Is this sort of thing common for your like?”

Shaking his head, Aziraphale’s mind was already skimming through all the books he’d ever read on the subject of occult and ethereal forces, even though he knew it was all a complete waste of time. “No… and I don’t even know what Beelzebub and Gabriel were intending when they threw that power out at us. I’d always assumed that they were trying to destroy us both, discorporate us at the very least, but what if they hadn’t?” his eyes flicked up to hers, “What if they were simply sending us both back so that they could deal with us later? What if Crowley had been hit with miracles that, simultaneously, tried to send him to Heaven and Hell?”

There was a pause, a long blink as Anathema thought and then, “But, if he didn’t end up in Heaven or Hell, then where else would he go?”

“There only are two other options,” Aziraphale’s thoughts were simply spilling out as they formed, “Death, which we had assumed to be the case, and, well, _Earth_.”

“Where he already was.”

“Ah, yes, obviously. But somewhere else on Earth. Somewhere different.”

“Without his memories?”

“Yes. Otherwise he would have made some attempt to return to me. To contact me. I _know_ he would.”

Anathema sat back, her finger pressed to her chin as she thought. “So how did he get back to London now? How is he set up as a florist in one of the priciest real estate areas of the country? _How has he not realised that he’s a demon_?”

The reality of the situation hit Aziraphale like a sledgehammer of ice to the stomach. For a moment he couldn’t reply, couldn’t think around the awfulness of the situation, how vulnerable Crowley had been, _was still_. He took a breath and held Anathema’s eyes. “He knows that there’s something different about his eyes, he wears the glasses, and how could he _not_ know that? And, he knows that demons are very real, given what he said to Newton.” He paused then, martialled his thoughts together and took a breath. “Someone is manipulating him, manipulating the truths around him. Someone has got to him before us,” and really, it had been five years, almost six. Someone else had had plenty of time to get to Crowley whilst Aziraphale had been completely ignorant of his plight.

Oh. Oh, how absolutely dreadful. Even whilst Aziraphale was sitting in his bookshop missing his demon and trawling backwards and forwards through time, cataloguing all the times he’d let his dearest friend down, all the times he’d failed him in complete ignorance of his need, even whilst Aziraphale had been vigorously taking part in self-flagellation for all those failings, _he’d been doing it again_! He’d blindly assumed that poor Crowley was dead, destroyed, extinguished from all life and for all time, and really – he hadn’t been, he’d simply been somewhere else, maybe two miles down the road, alone and vulnerable and needing Aziraphale to _figure it out_ and come and get him. Save him. But Aziraphale had not figured it out, had he? He’d not even acknowledged that there had ever been a problem.

He was the absolute worst type of friend possible. He hadn’t figured it out, in his self-centred grief he’d not even considered that Crowley might have survived, and really, if anything he should have known that! When had Crowley ever done what he was supposed to have done? Would he simply roll over and die as was expected of him? No, of course not.

And what of Crowley himself, had situations been reversed? Would he have sat around for almost six years, bemoaning Aziraphale’s loss and not doing a damn thing about trying to make any of it better? No, Aziraphale knew that for a fact, it frightened him to wonder what he might have done with all that dark and dangerous energy he cloaked himself in in times of stress, but he knew for a fact that Crowley would not have just curled up in a ball and accepted Aziraphale’s loss as Aziraphale had done for him. How could he have been so selfish? 

But now, well, now was the time that he needed to act. It may have been a serendipitous moment which awoke the angel to Crowley’s plight, but it meant that the time had finally arrived in a way he could not obfuscate. He wrapped his shock and guilt away for another day and fixed Anathema with a steady stare. “We need to help him. We need a way to get him back.”

Anathema shook her head. “We need to be careful here, that’s what we need to do.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes.

“You have to remember that he is a demon, with a full range of demon’s powers. A _powerful_ demon at that, from what you have told me.”

He _had_ said things like that to Anathema as Crowley _was_ a powerful demon, powerful as all demons were, but also clever, yes, wily, imaginative, resourceful, determined… But, how was it that he described himself? So far down the pecking order that he was barely a councillor of Hell? Which had never really made complete sense, given the responsibilities he was plagued with, and yet, Aziraphale had always silently swallowed it and never asked for any more. Worst possible type of friend.

“Powerful, yes, but he would never use that power for evil intent. Not really.”

Anathema leaned closer to him, “But he’s not _him_ anymore is he? Not that he’s aware of, anyway. He doesn’t even know that he _is_ a demon, what would he do if he was cornered, threatened? He might use his powers instinctively, _powerfully_.”

_But he is Crowley! He’s my Crowley and he always will be!_

Aziraphale bit the words back behind his teeth. He wanted them to be true, oh, how much he wanted them to be true, but Anathema was right. Had Aziraphale’s tardiness cost Crowley who he was? Who he’d always clung on to being? It barely bore examining.

“Well then,” and he might have been painfully slow to overcome his initial inertia, but he certainly wasn’t stupid, “We will need a way to get closer to him first, to find out what on Earth has happened to him, what he _thinks_ has happened to him, and then we’ll need to earn his trust.” He stopped and flopped back into his seat. “But how to do that? How could we possibly even start to rekindle six thousand years of friendship quickly enough to save him from further hurt? Further manipulation?”

Across from him, Anathema smiled and leaned back in her seat. “I might have the perfect way.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at her.

“How do you fancy planning a wedding?”

~~**~~


	4. He Could Do It. He Could. For Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No extra tags, no warnings :)

Less than twenty-four hours after discovering that Crowley was very much alive and, at least, some version of well, Aziraphale was back, hovering at the end of the little cobbled street once more, dredging up enough courage to simply walk in and say hello. It wasn’t as if he were a cowardly angel, really, it was just… oh, it was all so _important_ , and Crowley was so precious… Aziraphale was just terrified he was going to mess it all up. But no, he couldn’t think like that, he needed to get a grip and just do this.

He could do it.

He could.

For Crowley.

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale drew himself up straight and steeled himself. “Come on, old chap,” he whispered under his breath. “He needs you now.” Another breath, then one more, and finally he was ready, striding across the cobbles, his eyes set of the dark rectangle of doorway that marked the entrance to the shop.

It was quiet inside, and cool, and had that wonderfully damp, earthy smell that transported Aziraphale straight back to Eden. Eden – Crowley’s favourite place in all of time and space. How odd that this confused and almost _human_ version of him would create such a haven for himself. The shop was empty, the door propped open and so the little bell did not ring as he stepped inside. There was a bell on the desk, though, but Aziraphale didn’t tap it, instead he took the opportunity to stand and stare at everything in this room that Crowley had acquired, had _touched_ , everything that was so impersonal really, scissors, knives, chopping boards, ribbons, papers, but also so _very_ personal, as they were all Aziraphale had, at the minute, of _him_.

“Hi,” and suddenly, he was there, in the doorway from the back room, flame hair, glasses, black t-shirt, green apron, drying his hands on a towel and looking at Aziraphale and _smiling_. Smiling so naturally, so happily and so _right there_ , that, for a moment, it stole Aziraphale’s thoughts away. He stared, just stared, his heart was pounding, his pulse thundering in his ears, but he was mute, helpless…

The sunny smile faded, Crowley hastily put the towel down on the counter, his expression creased in concern and he started forward. “Sir?”

Aziraphale stared at him.

“Are you alright?”

Aziraphale found his reset button and frantically mashed at it, Crowley coming close to him, possibly even _touching_ him, was too much, far too much for him to process and have a hope of keeping this charade in place. He straightened up, projected as much _distance_ as possible and, thankfully, Crowley stopped, one leg behind the counter, one in front, almost comically and so incredibly un-Crowley-like _unsure_. The anomaly rippled through Aziraphale like seismic waves.

“Ah, yes!” if in doubt, fall back on impeccable manners and good projection. He gripped his hands together in front of his much-loved waistcoat and pushed out his best welcoming smile. “Thank you, yes, I’m here actually for a wedding. Flowers. Wedding flowers. Yes, that’s why I’m here,” bravely, he held on to his smile.

Crowley stopped and looked at him before withdrawing back behind the counter and picking up the towel again, finishing wiping off his long fingers, averting his eyes even behind the dark glasses. “You were here yesterday,” he nodded towards the window. “With the American lady and the white flowers.”

White flowers. Pristinely angelic; arranged by the hands of a demon. Preserved for evermore by a divine miracle in an earthly bookshop. What a mosaic.

“Ah, yes, I was. That is correct,” Aziraphale’s smile faltered as _implications_ tormented him. He pushed on. “My friend, Anathema, you see.”

Crowley nodded and pulled a pad across the bench towards him, his fingers curling around a plain black Bic. “She said she had a friend with a wedding, you him then?”

“I am yes.”

“Congratulations,” a quick smile was pushed his way. “When is it?”

Aziraphale faltered, Anathema’s coaching lost in the wake of yet another smile. “When is what?”

Beat.

“Your wedding.”

“My wedding? Ah, yes… Erm, September. September the 14th.”

“This year?”

“Yes.”

“Right,” Crowley shifted more comfortably against the counter, glasses flicking up to the doorway as it was momentarily blocked by a shadow.

Aziraphale startled, whirling around, far too keyed up for his own good only to find himself staring at a harassed looking mum with a double buggy, a hot looking toddler and a whining pre-schooler who was refusing to get back in said buggy. Between the four of them, they took up the entire floor area of the shop.

“What were you thinking, then?” Crowley gamely asked, raising his voice to be heard over the cacophony of complaints from the family of humans and Aziraphale stared at him, wondering why Anathema hadn’t warned him that he might be asked any more questions.

“Thinking?” he parroted, and just knew that, behind those shades, Crowley had rolled his eyes.

“Yeah. Bouquets, buttons holes, arrangements, displays, arches, seat-ends, thank you gifts… What were you wanting?”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “I don’t know.”

The wailing behind him increased in volume and Crowley stared at him, impassive. Aziraphale racked his brains, trying to think back to Anathema’s wedding and what flowers they had there, before Crowley tired of him and sent him on his way so that he could serve this other customer and her very loud tiny-humans.

“Okay,” he leaned over the counter, and Aziraphale found that he was having to lean in as well, just to hear what was being said. “Why don’t you make an appointment and then this can be done properly?”

“An appointment?” Aziraphale was wondering where it had all gone so wrong. “With whom?”

Another beat.

“With me. After hours. So that we can discuss the possibilities. You obviously haven’t given it much thought.”

Well, that was true. But an appointment… after hours… Aziraphale’s heart was thundering once more. “Absolutely. Yes. Yes, that would be lovely. Great. The right thing to do at any rate. Tonight maybe? After all, it will be my wedding very soon. After hours tonight? Would that do?” He forced himself to stop, but not before he’d seen the amusement flickering across the face in front of him.

“Perfectly,” Crowley was openly smiling now, had Aziraphale ever seen so many smiles in such a short space of time? “Six? Back here?”

Aziraphale nodded, feeling his own beam lighting up his expression and not even the sticky hands of wailing child number one trailing something red across the knee of his trousers could dampen his excitement and pleasure at the way things had turned. He stepped from the shop and back into the sunshine of the morning and wondered how much Anathema hadn’t prepared him for any flower related conversations _on purpose_.

Clever witch.

~~**~~ 

Aziraphale was ready for five. Well, he’d actually been ready since exiting the shop that morning, but he was ready and back in the vicinity an hour early just in case he somehow became entangled in something and had ended up being late. He found himself a seat on the embankment and sat, happily staring out across the London skyline allowing himself to remember it all for a change.

London.

As he had said to Anathema, London had become something special to them over the years. Somewhere to return to. A base, maybe. A home? Somewhere he knew that Crowley would be. At some point. If he waited long enough. And, over the years, the wait had been steadily getting shorter, the periods between briefer. And why had that been? Had Crowley appreciated Aziraphale’s company as much as Aziraphale had appreciated his?

He had to have done, really, otherwise why on Earth would he have kept on returning? And return he had, over and over again, across the years and the centuries. Hell would send him off on some errand or other and, dutifully, he would go to Peru or Mongolia or East India, and then he would come back. To Aziraphale. And they would coexist happily alongside each other once more. He, Crowley and London, their lives intrinsically interwoven.

He stared across the river at the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, a sight instantly recognised the world over, and smiled. He had been there longer than the dome, as had Crowley. Of course they had. 

_St Paul’s Cathedral, 1699_

_“Mr Fell, sir,” Aziraphale looked around as his name was called. “There’s a gentlemen outside, sir, wants to talk to you, he does.” The messenger smiled as Aziraphale’s fingers hovered around his pockets, thinking, no doubt, of the coin he would get for his impeccably delivered message._

_Aziraphale sighed and looked back up at the huge patch of grey sky showing through the gaps in the timber framework of the eventual dome above him. “Well, I am busy,” Gabriel wanted this new cathedral to showcase the wonder of the Almighty, but the laws of physics were proving difficult to manipulate. “If he wants to see me, he can come in and see me.”_

_“He said you’d say that, sir,” the youngster was obviously thrilled at the opportunity to showcase his full repertoire of message-relaying, “So he told me to say,” he cleared his throat and drew himself up a little, “’If you think I’m coming in there, angel, you have lost your mind. These are new boots of the finest Italian leather. I’m not risking it.’ They were his exact words, sir!”_

_“Oh, I’m sure they were,” Aziraphale grumbled as he tossed a ha’penny the delighted boy’s way and started striding out towards the edge of the site. “Ridiculously dramatic serpent. It’s not as if the place has even been consecrated yet,” but there was no point in denying that his stomach hadn’t squirmed happily at the news that Crowley was back in the country._

_And there he was leaning insouciantly against the wall of a baker’s shop, dressed all in black, arms folded, grin in place, finest Italian leather boots shining gamely through the filth of the London streets. Aziraphale shook his head at him as he approached, it was what they did after all. “Don’t even try to pretend that you do anything other than make your boots appear precisely when you want them to,” he offered in greeting._

_Crowley’s grin widened. “Yeah… but that takes effort, angel, and… nah… not in the mood for that. Not today.”_

_“It’s not even been blessed yet.”_

_He watched, transfixed as Crowley’s eyebrows raised higher that the rims of his ubiquitous dark lenses, “Doesn’t need blessing. There’s been some holy shit on this site for the last thousand years. You think I’m walking over that then you’re madder than old Rudolf himself.”_

_Aziraphale shook his head in disapproval, although he could feel the edges of his lips trying to quirk in amusement and knew that Crowley had noticed too. “How was Stockholm?” he asked instead, unable to miss the way that Crowley’s joviality immediately dimmed, and his shoulders sagged just the tiniest of touches. He wondered what he’d missed._

_“Hot, but I don’t want to talk about that now.”_

_“You don’t? What do you want to talk about, then?” Despite himself, Aziraphale’s heart started to beat harder in his chest in worry; a Crowley on a mission could be a dangerous thing._

_The smile was back though, liquid charm that ran right down into the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach. “I want you to tell me about that,” he nodded with his, thankfully, goatee-less chin at the growing cathedral. “In great depth. Every sketch, every model, every calculation, every order that twat Gabriel has issued about it. The whole thing. I’ll even take you out for lunch whilst you do it.”_

_“Really?” Aziraphale knew he’d lit up like a beacon, Crowley was usually so disparaging about his schemes, he could never get excited about architecture like Aziraphale did, he’d really been quite scathing about it all when Aziraphale had first shown him Wren’s early ideas for the new cathedral._

_“Absolutely,” Crowley offered him a charming smile as they turned and headed into the labyrinthine streets, “I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately, and I’m well over-due a nap. An afternoon listening to you droning on about lanterns and coursed ashler could be just what I need to see me off.”_

_“Oh, really!” Aziraphale fumed and pouted and shook his head, but Crowley laughed, and the angel still followed along in his wake. Of course he did._

~~**~~

It was what they had done, after all. Gravitated around each other. Followed each other. _Chosen_ each other. Over and over again. For years and centuries and millennia. And through it all, Aziraphale had always believed that there would be chance for more as time wore on. More gravitating, more following and more choosing, yes, but also just more _more_.

But then there hadn’t been, and Crowley had been gone.

So, now he was here again, never gone at all it would seem, would they get that chance now? Maybe? If Aziraphale played this whole scenario out just perfectly? _Maybe_. And how heady a thought was that?

As he turned the corner into the street with the flower shop, there was Crowley himself, locking the front door and pulling the shutters down; boots, black jeans, black t-shirt, jacket, with a hard-backed A4 notebook tucked under his arm, black and red, of course. Aziraphale had to stop for a moment, still not used to seeing him, still not used to all the emotions that the sight of his dearest of friends awoke inside him… he wondered if he ever would be. With an effort, he hauled it all under control again and plastered a pleasant-looking smile on his face as he waited for Crowley to see him.

He turned then, after one last check that the shutter was secure, and nodded a greeting Aziraphale’s way, the slightest hint of a smile flittering around the edges of his mouth. “Hi, you been waiting long?”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale was pleased at how steady his voice sounded and gestured at the silent shop. “Are we not meeting in there?”

Aziraphale knew Crowley, knew when he was edgy and trying hard to pretend that he wasn’t, knew the way his shoulders rode up towards his ears and the angles of his face sharpened just a little. It felt a little wrong, almost voyeuristic, to share that knowledge of this person who, really, was at such a disadvantage in return. “Ah,” a shift sideways, an indirect glance, “There’s a pub just down the road, it’s got a nice beer garden. I wondered if you minded some fresh air? I could murder a drink as well.”

“No, of course not,” Aziraphale plastered the smile even more firmly onto his face, “after you.”

It was a nice beer garden, more of a terrace really, but it had lots of trees in huge pots and, if you sat right in the corner, a view of the Thames. They sat either side of a square, aluminium table and Aziraphale followed suit as Crowley snatched up a drinks menu from the centre, wondering if it was the drink or the air he’d really wanted, or maybe he’d just had second thoughts about inviting a strange man into his shop after hours. “I think I will have a nice, large glass of Pinot Grigio,” there really wasn’t the largest of choices. “The Malbec for you?”

Crowley’s head snapped up and Aziraphale desperately tried to swallow down the tide of rising panic. What had he said that for? What was wrong with him? What had Anathema said to him, over and over and over again? Don’t tip your hand. Don’t scare him off. Don’t let him think you’re anything other than new acquaintances. _What was wrong with him?_

“Yeah,” the voice was quiet, edgy and Aziraphale knew he had to act fast, he looked up, plastered a smile on his face and hoped it looked genuine as he let out a little laugh.

“Ah…. it’s a thing I do, just a thing. Trying to guess the beverage choices of my acquaintances,” he forced himself to hold Crowley’s stare whilst he spoke. “I’m quite good at it, to be honest and, well, you really just looked like a red wine type of person.”

The moment stretched on, Crowley was impassive and Aziraphale crumbled. “I’m sorry. It’s weird, I know. And unsettling. I understand that. I apologise.”

Crowley held his gaze for another uncomfortable moment before nodding to himself and pushing to his feet. “I’ll get these,” he muttered and slid off towards the bar. Aziraphale, left behind, only just resisting smashing his head repeatedly onto the silver table top.

He wasn’t gone long, returning with the two glasses and an easier smile, before slotting himself back into his seat and glancing at Aziraphale as he had his first sip of perfectly chilled white wine. “I don’t know your name,” he sipped his own drink, expressionless and extended a hand out across the table. “I’m Tom, by the way, Tom Brown.”

Aziraphale startled slightly at the literary reference but Crowley didn’t seem to expect a comment and the expectant hand was far more concerning at this moment and so Aziraphale swallowed hard and took it in his, firm and professional, shaking once as he forced his voice into neutral to push out, “Alex Fell, good to meet you.”

They withdrew, Aziraphale stamping hard on the desire to hold the hand just touched by Crowley against his cheek, whilst Crowley could be seen flexing his fingers just under the cover of the table top; Aziraphale wondered if he’d squeezed too hard.

“So,” Crowley slid back in his seat and Aziraphale could tell that his act of relaxation was exactly that. “This wedding then, what kind of theme are you planning for it all?”

Aziraphale frowned, “A _theme_? Like, Disney Princesses or Dinosaurs or something like that?”

Crowley laughed. “If you wanted to. But I was meaning more along the lines of classic or contemporary, golden, opulent, something like that?” Why hadn’t Aziraphale spent more time looking up weddings in the bookshop before they had this meeting? He honestly had no idea what Crowley was on about. It must have shown very plainly on his face as Crowley leaned in a little, taking pity on him. “Well, just tell me what you’ve talked about wanting so far. You and,” he faltered slightly, “the Mrs Fell-to-be.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale felt his cheeks pinken slightly. There were some ruses he was happy to partake in, and some he was not, he shifted his gaze to a point just over Crowley’s shoulder. “No Mrs Fell-to-be, it’s a Mister. And I rather think he’ll keep his own name as well.”

“I’m sorry,” but oddly enough, he didn’t look it. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“That’s quite alright, my dear, most people do. The other way, though I have to say.” They laughed a little, dispelling the awkward tension and Crowley took up his notebook, leafing through a first half covered in sketches and notes that Aziraphale was just itching to have a closer look at, and finding a pristine double page spread in which he wrote ‘Fell’ in the top corner in his familiar messy scrawl.

“So, fourteenth of September then?” Aziraphale nodded. “Maybe this would be better if you just told me a little of what you’ve planned so far, and I’ll see what I can suggest around it?”

“Alright then,” Aziraphale wriggled a bit closer to the edge of his seat, “Well, the ceremony itself, we thought we could have in the bookshop, my bookshop, it’s in Soho, you know and there’s the most wonderful glass dome in the roof…” and suddenly, it was easy, and Aziraphale just let all of his most idle daydreams of him and Crowley filter out into the early evening quiet.

~~**~~

“Okay,” their empty glasses were neatly stacked onto a tray as their server delivered them both another fresh one and Crowley looked back over the notes he’d made in his book. It was dark, the summer night finally fallen completely and Aziraphale knew that it was only Crowley’s enhanced vision that was allowing him to be able to see anything at all – he wondered if that had occurred to him. “So, I reckon that’s plenty to be getting along with. I can go over these later and maybe draw you up some proper sketches? Suggest some things you might like?”

Aziraphale swallowed a huge mouthful of wine, pleased beyond anything that it looked as if they would be able to do this again. “That sounds perfect.”

“And then, maybe you can talk to…”

“Anthony.”

“Anthony, and see if he likes what we’ve come up with and then we can book it all in.”

It was odd. Anthony, in this guise anyway, barely existed, but even so, Aziraphale did not want him intruding on this little bubble of life that he and Crowley had built together. “Ah,” he attempted to sound disappointed, “he works away. America. I barely see him. He won’t be back until just before the wedding and so I have carte blanche to plan whatever I want. He’ll enjoy the surprise.”

Crowley nodded, his glasses holding Aziraphale’s gaze. “That must be hard if you never see him at all. My partner works away too, but at least he gets back every few weeks or so. And he’s hoping to be able to sort something for us to be together properly in the future. What about Anthony? Is he going to have to work like that after you’re married?”

Aziraphale knew he stuttered something along the lines of the mythical Anthony’s time in the States drawing to a close after the wedding and moving back to London for good, but really, all he could devote any brain power to was, partner? _Male partner_? He has a male partner who wants them to be together ‘properly’ in the future? He could almost hear his heart breaking in his chest.

“Well, that’s not too bad then,” Crowley was saying, “and I suppose it will be easier if you get to make all of the wedding decisions yourself, less arguments.”

“Yes. Yes, I assume so,” Aziraphale licked his lips. “And your young man? You said he works away as well?”

Crowley shifted, awkwardly, Aziraphale thought, and folded his arms. “Yeah.”

“And he’s trying to get a move closer to you, then?” An obviously pained shrug was his answer to that, and it was clear that Crowley was seconds away from running, but Aziraphale just had to push. “No?”

“He’s trying to get something for me to do at Head Office with him. It’s a big place. There must be something,” he downed the rest of his wine in one gulp and rose to his feet at that, picking up his notebook and holding it against his chest like a shield. “Anyway, I’d better go. I need to be at the flower market at four, need to get some sleep.”

Aziraphale stood as well, unwilling to let him go, but understanding he wouldn’t be stopping him either. “When should I pop back then? See how you’ve got on with the sketches?”

There was a pause, Aziraphale could see Crowley fighting with himself then there was a sigh, a melting of some kind. “Tomorrow? Same time?”

Aziraphale could not stop himself from beaming. “Tomorrow would be absolutely perfect! Thank you so much. I shall see you then.”

Crowley nodded, and slid his finger tips of one hand into the pockets of his jeans, whilst the other held his book close to his heart, then, without another glance Aziraphale’s way, he was off, sidling down the street into the distance, his shoulders stooped, his head bowed.


	5. They’d Just Allowed Life to Flow Around Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some additional tags, and a warning for a single act of significant violence.

The next twenty-four hours crawled by, but eventually, Aziraphale was waiting outside the flower shop once more as Crowley drew down the shutters and locked the door, this time with a large sketch pad under his arm. He smiled as he saw Aziraphale waiting for him and the angel was glad that he had seemed to have thrown off the strange mood of the night before.

“Evening, Alex,” without a word of planning, they fell into step and turned towards their ‘regular’ pub. “Busy day at the shop?”

“Oh, yes, actually!” Aziraphale found that he could just about ignore the inherent strangeness of Crowley calling him ‘Alex’. “It’s been packed! I had three customers this morning and four this afternoon! I’ve hardly got a thing done.”

Crowley looked at him, the edges of a smile on his face. “Seven customers?” he queried, “Is that a lot?”

“Absolutely! I don’t know what’s wrong with everyone today, coming in, browsing and _touching_ the books,” he knew that his expression must be as pained as he felt. “Fortunately, no one bought anything, so that’s something, but even so. I am quite tempted not to open up at all tomorrow, just in case this turns into a habit!”

They walked on in silence, Crowley’s glasses fixed to the side of Aziraphale’s face. It was almost as if he were battling with saying what was on his mind, and, eventually, his curiosity won out. “Is it good not to sell anything, then? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do in a shop?”

“Well…” Aziraphale winced a little, how could he explain this to a Crowley who just didn’t _know_ him? “I don’t mind the odd sale you know. Of multiple stock items, that sort of thing. But the rest, well, it’s taken me so long to amass them all!” He edged a little sideways glance, worried at how that admission would go down, but Crowley didn’t laugh, he didn’t even look in the slightest bit surprised.

“More of a collection than an actual shop then,” he offered and Aziraphale could have cried with how easily he understood.

“Exactly!”

“So, how do you earn the money to live? I’m hoping you’re going to pay me for these flowers I’m doing for you.”

“Of course! I do have… family money, you know. Enough to get by.” It was a lie, and he felt bad about that, or was it? The money came from his miracles, and the miracles came from his Mother. Enough of a family connection to ease his guilt, he supposed. Aziraphale had always been good at that.

They arrived at the pub and sat in their usual seat at the corner of the terrace, Crowley looking at the drinks menu again, possibly in the hope that something better had appeared on it overnight. “What about you then, dear boy?” he questioned. “Have you had a busy day? I’d imagine that you are quite keen to have your blooms purchased, since they won’t last anywhere near as long as my books.”

Crowley nodded. “I hate it when I have left over stock. It’s like… well, it’s like they’ve given their lives for nothing, you know?” he glanced up from behind his glasses and Aziraphale could almost taste how anxious he was at sharing a piece of himself like this. “I mean, I know they’re just flowers, but we grow them to bring joy and peace, to show love and compassion. The act of picking them kills them and then,” he shrugged. “For nothing? Just to end up in the bin at the back? It doesn’t seem right.”

“No…” Aziraphale stared. If he’d needed proof, more proof, that Crowley had been well and truly scrambled over the last five years, then that would do it. Crowley, _his Crowley_ , would never have dared to bare even a sliver of his soul to an almost-stranger like that, not the way that this Crowley did. He found that he could barely speak over the tightness in his throat.

“Anyway, I don’t do that, throw them out, you know, if they’re past their best.”

“No?” he swallowed, “What do you do?”

There was a pause, Aziraphale could see Crowley’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed and then he looked up, brave as ever. “I make them into bouquets anyway. Sprays, posies, depending on how many I have left, and then I leave them on people’s doorsteps. People who live alone. Older people. That type of thing.”

“That’s beautiful,” the whisper drifted between them and Aziraphale could see Crowley’s cheeks dust with colour as it landed.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s very much something, dear boy. Very much indeed.”

They slid into silence, Crowley staring at the menu, Aziraphale staring at the top of his head.

“Anyway,” Crowley cleared his throat. “I don’t have to worry about that today. Had a good day. Quite a bit of passing trade, a few orders for the future-”

“None for September the fourteenth, I should hope!”

“No,” another one of those barely-there smiles, “Absolutely not. Oh, and a regular order from a new boutique hotel that’s just opened up along towards the Globe. Three big arrangements, every morning, for their Reception areas.”

“Oh, how wonderful for you! A lot of work though, will you be able to manage?”

“Absolutely,” Crowley pushed to his feet and looked down at Aziraphale, the smile more natural now. “I love making up arrangements, especially ones where I have free reign, like these. It’s so…” he frowned, obviously floundering for the perfect word. “Delivering? _Redeeming_? I don’t know,” he shrugged, clearly embarrassed. “Same as before?” he offered and, at Aziraphale’s nod, turned and headed into the bar.

“Oh, my _dearest_ Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered once he was out of earshot and sat, waiting, and wondering how a Fall he couldn’t even remember could still haunt him so.

~~**~~

“They’re just palettes,” Aziraphale could see the lines of a frown creasing Crowley’s forehead. “It’s really nothing special.”

“Oh, but they are special,” Aziraphale’s fingers were running over the expensive cartridge paper, tracing the little blocks of colour that Crowley had carefully water-coloured into life for him.

“It’s just to give you an idea, really. I know that you haven’t even thought of what you’re both going to wear, and so you can get a better idea of how all the different colours will go together, the contrasts and the compliments, you know?”

“Well, I didn’t, but I do now… Who’d have thought that it all could be so complicated? You’re so clever.”

Clearly awkward, Crowley attempted to move the conversation on. “See anything you like?”

_Lots_ , Aziraphale thought, and not all of it in this book. He tried hard to concentrate on the task, though, even when he was constantly distracted by the tiny flecks of green paint that speckled the back of Crowley’s hand, proof that he was the one who had created this picnic of colour for Aziraphale.

“This one,” he said, his certainty surprising even him. “This is the one I like best.”

Crowley leaned in a bit for a better look as Aziraphale tapped a bar of colours towards the centre of the page. The palette was very ‘him’ at the start, creams and beiges and fawns, but then the colours deepened, _matured_ , into russets and chocolate and that same verdant green that was speckling Crowley’s skin. It seemed serendipitous.

“Yeah, that’s a good one. That would work great in the Autumn too. Well, late summer I suppose. With hints of gold too? And the flowers could have gold accents. With the green that would be really striking. Lots of dramatic foliage. It’d really compliment your colouring.”

He looked up, leaning right over the sketchbook as he was they were suddenly close together, so close together. They stared at each other, Aziraphale’s heart thumping hard against the aluminium table it was pressed against. His eyes skipped down to Crowley’s lips, parted and moist and so, so close. He forced himself to look up but that was almost as bad, he could tell that Crowley was looking at his lips, staring, staring… With a screech of metal on concrete, Aziraphale found himself on his feet, his cheeks aflame, his hands trembling.

“Another drink?” he offered, horrified to feel the start of an erection in his trousers. “I could do with another one. A drink. Another drink.” Crowley didn’t answer, didn’t move and Aziraphale turned on his heel and marched resolutely inside to order them another round. When he returned, Crowley was back to lounging in his chair, his sketchbook away, his expression carefully guarded.

~~**~~

They didn’t make plans to meet up the next night, or the next, and Aziraphale hadn’t dared to push it. “I’ll call you,” Crowley had said, “When I get some arrangements sketched up,” and he supposed he’d have to be happy with that.

The night had never recovered its easy charm after the awkward meeting-in-the-middle-of-the-table moment. Really, Aziraphale should have known better than to let a situation like that evolve. It wasn’t like they’d never been there before, after all, it wasn’t like they’d not had previously close brushes with the more instinctive aspects of their beings. And really, how was that a thing when they weren’t even human? He supposed that it could be described as ‘going native’ after all this time on Earth.

He thought back through his memories, wondered how they’d managed to recover from that brink before, how they’d managed to rekindle their ‘normal’ in the face to addressing what they might have let happen.

It wasn’t easy to find an answer though, and it began to occur to him that, perhaps, they’d never addressed this elephant before. Ever. Maybe they’d just allowed life to flow around them, or maybe, they’d just been caught up in the drama that immortal beings, operating at the whim of their employers, couldn’t avoid…

_Moscow, 1918_

_Aziraphale smiled at the other pleasure seekers milling around in the entrance to the Moscow Art Theatre and shuffled himself and his drink off to the side, near the bottom on the stairs, so that he would be best placed to see who came in. He liked theatre, had been attending theatres all over the World since Ancient times in Greece, and, despite the huge changes which had befallen Moscow in recent months, it seemed that plenty of people shared his view. There were just less moneyed gentry around these days and more sombrely dressed government officials. So, yes, Aziraphale liked the theatre, but, and here was the thought that never quite sat comfortably with him, he liked it best with Crowley._

_Crowley... Aziraphale looked hopefully towards the entrance once more as people started to drift towards their seats for the start of the play. Twelfth Night. Crowley liked Twelfth Night, he liked the funny ones, but then he hadn’t replied to Aziraphale’s heavily coded letter, hadn’t been in touch at all ever since Aziraphale had arrived in Moscow over six months ago. The angel was here to, supposedly, spread a little tolerance and good will in these turbulent times, make sure that God was not forgotten as Marxism marched onwards. Personally, he was surprised at the back seat he was supposed to be taking though, he felt it made far more sense to try and get an audience with Lenin himself, see if he couldn’t bend the man’s views on religion a little more towards Heaven’s favour. But no… free will, Gabriel reminded him. But it did seem that Gabriel’s liking of free will absolutely depended on the circumstances and the persons involved…_

_“Angel!”_

_Aziraphale was wrenched out of his convoluted musing on politics and religion, by the urgent hissing in his ear and he turned, happy smile gracing his face, only for his happiness to dissolve the second he saw Crowley’s anxious expression and the fact that he was, currently, hiding behind a long, red velvet curtain. Frowning, Aziraphale sidled over to him. “Crowley, my dear, are you quite alright? Don’t tell me you’ve been banned from this theatre, as well?”_

_When that comment didn’t elicit a smug grin or even the tiniest of self-satisfied smirks, Aziraphale found his stomach twisting with worry, even more so when Crowley just looked around him with a haunted expression and then gestured over his head with a jerk of his chin to a pair of closed doors behind them._

_Aziraphale went first, opening the locked doors with a thought and withdrawing into a damp and silent service corridor. Crowley slunk in after him, the angel’s narrowed eyes being drawn, immediately to the great coat, the colour of smoke, the other wore, and the red star and square arrangement stitched neatly to his chest. His lips thinned, “Company commander, I believe, Crowley?” his voice was as tight as his throat. “My, you have been working fast here. You’ll be Lenin’s right-hand man before the month’s out.”_

_Crowley didn’t rise to the jibe in the slightest, however. He spent two silent and nervy minutes with his ear to the now-closed doors, before letting out a long sigh of relief, and turning to the angel standing piously in front of him, “Aziraphale…” and the use of his name was another indication that all was not right here. “You have got to help me.”_

_Not able to help himself, despite the worry in the pit of his stomach, Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Whatever mess have you got yourself into this time?”_

_The demon looked grey though, his usually pale skin was leeched of all colour, and he looked clammy and sick. He shook his head, lips pressed together in a thin line, “It’s not that, not this time,” he looked up, glasses blank and strangely foreboding, “It’s a job.”_

_“You want to swap?!” Aziraphale sounded appalled; if the task, whatever it was, was this distasteful to a demon, what would it be like for an angel?_

_“No! Satan… no…” if anything, Crowley had gone paler still as he shuffled closer to his accomplice. “I need you to help me get out of it.”_

_“Get out of it?”_

_Crowley nodded urgently._

_“Your job?”_

_Nod._

_“A temptation?”_

_A pause, and then a nod._

_“But you don’t want me to do it?”_

_This time his answer was a vehement shake of the head._

_Aziraphale paused, his heart pounding in his chest as he considered, and, finally, asked, “This temptation… what is it? What will they have you do?” Crowley had often not been overjoyed with the tasks thrown his way at Hell’s bidding, but Aziraphale had never seen him so absolutely desperate to get out of one before. He watched as Crowley swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing noticeably over the collar of the great coat, then run a shaking hand over his face before finally fixing his eyes to the floor at his feet and speaking._

_“They want me to tempt a man called Yakov Yurovsky, you heard of him?”_

_Aziraphale shook his head._

_“He’s an Old Bolshevik, loyal, trusted. He’s going to be tasked with moving the Romanovs to a safer place, well away from the anywhere the White Army might find and liberate them.”_

_“The Czar?” Aziraphale kept his voice low, they may well be in this empty corridor, but even speaking the Czar’s name in the wrong company could get a person killed in the powder keg that was Revolutionary Moscow._

_Crowley nodded. “All of them, the Czarina, the servants, the children…” he swallowed. “Well, Yurovsky is supposed to move them all, ship them out in the dead of night, but Hell want me to tempt him, to persuade him, to_ execute _them all instead.”_

_Aziraphale blinked, his blues eyes resting on the russet tones of Crowley’s extraordinary hair. “Execute them?” he repeated stupidly._

_Crowley nodded._

_“All of them?”_

_Another nod._

_“Even the children?” This time Crowley did not move a single muscle, he simply froze in place, the trembling of his hands the only movement and it all became horrifically clear. “Oh, my dear…” Aziraphale breathed, his hands itching to offer comfort._

_The sympathy fired Crowley into action, though, snapping his head up and clenching his fists. “You have to help me,” he implored. “You have to get me out of this!”_

_Aziraphale was lost, “Of course, my dear, of course, but how? What can I do that will excuse you from this dreadful act?”_

_Shaking fingers reached up to remove the ever-present glasses and Aziraphale was appalled at the tears he could see shining there. “You promise me? You promise you’ll help me?”_

_Dread spiked low and uncomfortable in Aziraphale’s belly but he nodded, how could he not agree in the face of such devastation?_

_His nod was met with a closing of Crowley’s eyes, the relief so powerful it seemed as if the tears would overflow after all, but they obeyed orders and retreated and Crowley nodded, satisfied. “Good,” he whispered and this time it was the angel’s turn to question._

_“But what can I do? What can either of us do? They give you a job and you have to say yes, correct? After all, we both know that Hell do not send rude notes…”_

_“You’re right, I can’t say no,” Crowley’s eyes were back on Aziraphale, hard and determined and the sense of unease in the angel’s gut geared up another level. “They’d just throw me in a time hole down below, torture me for a few centuries and then chuck me back up here to do it anyway. No… I need it to be so that I cannot do it… cannot, not will not. And I need to be blameless, well, as blameless as a demon can be, or the torture’ll happen anyway. I need,” he swallowed, licked his lips and Aziraphale started shaking his head as his mind caught up with Crowley’s thoughts. “I need-”_

_“No.”_

_“You promised.”_

_Aziraphale closed his eyes._

_“Angel, I need you to smite me. To discorporate me…”_

_Eyes still closed, Aziraphale shook his head._

_“I need you to! It’s the only way! I run, I hide, I lie, I discorporate myself then they’ll know it was just me and they’ll torture me and make me do it anyway – probably make me pull the trigger myself in retribution.”_

_Aziraphale’s eyes had opened to see the revulsion pass through Crowley’s expression. The fear._

_“You do it, and I might get a little beating for being bested, but they won’t know, and it’ll take so long to get a new body that the agenda will have moved on here and, well, the Romanovs might just live to see another day… and I might just get away with it!”_

_Aziraphale looked at him. At the hope and the fear, the desperation and the determination, the shame and the loathing and he could have wept in agony for him. “But you will be dead.”_

_“Not properly,” Crowley pushed out a washy smile. “You don’t get away from me that easily, you know. I won’t be properly dead, and I’ll be back up here as quick as a flash, quick enough to go and watch one of Will’s awful gloomy ones if you like. The gloomiest one you can find. If you want to.”_

_Shaking his head, his own fingers starting to tremble in sympathy, Aziraphale held Crowley’s gaze. “But what if they don’t send you back?”_

_“Pah! Of course they will!”_

_Aziraphale recognised false bluster when he saw it._

_“I am their best here on earth, their best, and they know it. Old Beelze won’t be able to resist sending me back as soon as you lot start saving more souls than we’re reaping. You watch.”_

_It was impossible not to shake his head again. “But Crowley,” his voice was soft, low, “Even if all of that is true, then they will just send another demon to do the same job. Yurovsky will be tempted, and the children will die. Nothing will change.”_

_“I know,” Crowley was talking to his boots, his voice so soft and low that Aziraphale had to lean in to hear him. “But, it’s a chance, angel, isn’t it? A chance for them. A glimmer of hope. And it will save me. My soul. What’s left of it. I’m not sure how it would survive if I murdered children in cold blood.”_

_“But it wouldn’t actually be you.”_

_“But it would!” Crowley’s head snapped up, bringing them oh, so close together. “It would be. My words, my temptation, my guilt,” they stared at each other, neither drawing back the slightest shade._

_“Crowley…”_

_“Please.”_

_Aziraphale found himself leaning ever more closely in, his eyes fixed on Crowley’s lips as they whispered and begged._

_“Please angel, you have to help me, you have to.”_

_They drifted closer, almost as if there was something else drawing them in, something divine, something feral, something completely invincible. Something ineffable._

_Aziraphale knew that he should stop this, that he should pull away and stand up straight and leave Crowley to his own mess, but… he couldn’t. And not only that, he didn’t want to, he never wanted to, and what if Crowley didn’t come back? What if they never had any other moments? Any other chances? What if… he leaned in, they both leaned in…_

_And then, from seemingly all around them, bells rang for the start of the play. Loud and piercing and enough to shock them both back to reality, back to the unbreakable nature of their beings. They sprang away, Aziraphale looking about him, above him, his cheeks flushed in a mixture of shame and desire, his eyes anywhere but on Crowley. Crowley himself pulled his glasses from his pocket and jammed them back over his eyes, stepping backwards with feigned nonchalance and leaning up against the wall whilst Aziraphale fussed and flailed._

_“Well?” he asked, once the angel’s breathing had settled a tad, “Please help me, angel, I am begging you.”_

_And he was, that much was clear, he absolutely was._

_Aziraphale closed his eyes and held his breath and then realised that there was no way around this. He nodded and Crowley sagged in relief. “Yes. Yes, my dear, I will, but I don’t want to, you do realise that don’t you? I don’t want to do this to you.”_

_“I know,” Crowley’s voice was barely a breath._

_They stared at each other in the silence of the service corridor, Aziraphale’s clever mind still whirling through the dilemma, wondering, hoping if there was a way around this still. In the meantime, “So,” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Do you have a plan for how we’re going to do this?”_

_Crowley nodded, of course he did. “Yeah. I thought… in the park where no one will see. A good old-fashioned smiting? Seems as good as anything. That okay with you?”_

_Aziraphale’s stomach turned, “But that will_ hurt _you.”_

_Crowley shrugged, “Briefly. But it’s the best thing in the long run. Do it hard and it’ll be over quicker. Best all ‘round. Yes?”_

_Best all around? Smiting his dearest companion into death? No, there was no ‘best’ in this scenario at all. “I suppose so,” he offered through pressed lips._

_“You know,” Crowley licked his lips and looked away again, shuffling his feet and shoving his hands into the pockets of his great coat. “I probably shouldn’t say this-”_

_Aziraphale’s heart clenched painfully, “Then don’t.”_

_He looked back at the angel. “But it probably needs saying.”_

_“No, it doesn’t. Not now. Not for this.” Not if Crowley still wanted him to go ahead with it, that was._

_They looked at each other, the moment stretching and Aziraphale could see the conflict in Crowley’s eyes, the disappointment. Eventually, though, he acquiesced, as Aziraphale had known he would, and nodded. “Okay then,” he was obviously doing his best to be business-like. “I suppose we should get going whilst they’re all absorbed in the play,” he nodded towards the emergency exits at the end of their corridor._

_Aziraphale’s stomach was churning in fear and misery, his mind spinning uselessly around the issue at hand. He was supposed to do this? He was supposed to take his dearest friend out into the middle of a dark and silent park, look him in the eye, see his terror and the desperation which had led to this and then just smite him? Burn him from the inside out? Take his own holiness and use it as an antithesis to everything Crowley was? Sear through his demonic essence in heat and light and crippling pain? Could he do that, could he watch him burn? Smell his singed flesh? Listen to him scream and howl? Watch him thrash and writhe in agony? See him burst into holy flames and die?_

_The answer was clear. No. He could_ not _do that, could never do that. But… he’d promised, and he did not take promises lightly, and, equally, how was he supposed to inflict this horror onto him as well? And then make him have to live on in the horror of his own mind? Replaying the moment that his actions condemned innocent children to death?_

_There was no choice either way – why couldn’t he think of a third option?_

_But still – he couldn’t do this, he knew himself well enough to know that he would never be able to look Crowley in the eye and kill him. He knew that._

_And so… He nodded, though, and motioned for Crowley to go first. What choice did he have? He’d promised._

_Crowley pushed off, his serpentine gait hardly disguised by the voluminous coat he wore as he made his way towards the doors. “I know this is hard for you, angel,” he offered softly. “You must know that I wouldn’t ask you, unless I had to. I wouldn’t-”_

_He didn’t get any further than that, he couldn’t, not when his head had been sliced clean off his neck. Aziraphale stood behind him, already hyperventilating, eyes wide in horror, every muscle trembling in rebellious shock, a single tear rolling down his cheek, the hand clutching the curved, blood-stained sword in such a tight spasm that he couldn’t drop it, couldn’t throw it down. “I’m sorry!” he gasped at the silence and the empty corporation before him, trying not to notice the spurting blood, the head, still wearing its glasses, resting up against the red-splattered skirting board. “I’m sorry, my dear! I couldn’t have done it if you’d known it was coming, I couldn’t have looked into your face and seen your fear, I couldn’t! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”_

_He turned then, retching over and over into the corner and, by the time he had finished, and the floor was covered in semi-digested petit-fours, by the time he’d shakily pushed himself upright once more, the body had gone. The blood had gone. The severed head of his dearest friend had gone._

_Crowley had gone._

_All that was left was a crushing silence and a curtain of guilt so heavy that Aziraphale wondered if he’d ever see the light of day again._

_“I’m sorry,” he whispered again with a mouth washed in bile, and then he staggered out into the misty night._

~~**~~

And after that, was it any surprise that that _moment,_ that Crowley’s almost-admission, was never revisited by the two of them?

Crowley had come back, of course he had. Seventeen years – just in time for the world to descend into madness once more.

He’d said that it hadn’t been a problem, he’d said that he completely understood what Aziraphale had done, applauded it even. But Aziraphale wasn’t so sure he wasn’t lying. Aziraphale had caught him cringing away from any sudden movements the angel had made, had caught him watching him, his eyes hooded and suspicious and _betrayed_. It had taken many years for that look to wear away from that face he knew so well.

But anyway, Aziraphale wasn’t supposed to be revisiting all the disasters he’d created over his long and complicated acquaintance with a demon, he was supposed to be wondering at the strange moment they’d just had together, the feeling of closeness that they both, regardless of how Crowley barley knew him, felt still. But they wouldn’t act upon it, would they? Neither of them. Ever. Ever?

So, creating even more disasters in this second chance life he had? Looked like it. 

The walk back to the bookshop was a quiet and pensive thing. Now that the absolute bone-shattering shock at finding Crowley alive was wearing away, it was being replaced by Aziraphale’s natural state of trepidation and concern; maybe they wouldn’t get a happy ending out of this after all? Maybe everything had changed – but also, nothing at all? Maybe. Maybe…


	6. Another Morning Spilt Out Across the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of torture, but nothing graphic.

Two days later and Aziraphale was back, tugging his waistcoat nervously as he approached the shop at the end of the little cobbled street. They had no arrangement, Crowley had not called as he had said he was going to, but Aziraphale had been unable to stay away and had decided on a little early evening walk, just to see, just to walk past the shop. He knew that it made him pathetic, but after going almost six years with Crowley absent from his life, two days of silence from his ‘resurrected’ friend was about all that he could stand. It was past six o’clock, but shutters were still open, which was odd, and the awning was still down. Aziraphale glanced at his watch and frowned, a nervous knot of worry twisting to life in his belly.

The door was shut, but unlocked, and Aziraphale cautiously pushed it open, just stopping himself from shouting, “Crowley?” and pushing out an awkward, “Hello?” instead. He just couldn’t force himself into using ‘Tom’.

The usually spotless shop was a mess with strewn stems and wires, riotous greenery and ribbons, abandoned buckets and cellophane. At Aziraphale’s call, Crowley appeared from the back room, his hair a dishevelled mess, his arms full of yellow, long-stemmed roses, his apron wet and dirty, Aziraphale’s heart stuttered a little at the stress he could see etched right through his dear friend’s expression.

“Alex…” even his tone was pulled tight like a bow.

“My dear boy, whatever is the matter?”

Shaking his head, Crowley dropped the roses onto the work bench and pulled out a lethal-looking knife, instantly stripping the thorns from their stems, his forehead drawn together in concentration. “I’m so sorry I haven’t called you yet. I would have done, I tried to, but I don’t have your number, and I’m sorry, but tonight is just not a good night to meet.”

Aziraphale stepped up to the counter, “But what’s _wrong_?” Flowers for a fictional wedding were the very least of his concerns.

Shaking his head again, Crowley continued with his stripping. “I have a wedding on tomorrow, a big one, Chelsea, and the stupid fucking arsehole of a supplier got the dates wrong, had me down for tomorrow instead of today. I was down here at four a fucking clock this morning waiting for a delivery, and nothing, not a thing arrived and the bastard didn’t even answer my calls until gone seven. Of course, there was nothing left by then, I had to drive right over to Leyton to see what they had, and a guy there sorted me out but I had to wait for him to deliver them as they were in his shop and…” he stopped then, distractedly raking his hair back from his eyes and Aziraphale recognised the gesture as a Crowley slipping ever closer to the edge. He shook his head yet again, “And they didn’t arrive until _three_ , and now I am never going to get everything done for the morning… and they’re collecting it all at six, and it’s their fucking _wedding_ …” His voice caught on that word and his hands were shaking, the knife slipping and sliding over the wet stalks and Aziraphale caught his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed and his heart just about broke – had anyone such a heart as Crowley?

He stripped off his coat and hung it on the door latch, turning the sign to ‘Closed’ as he did so. “Right then,” his fingers started on the ancient buttons of his shirt cuffs. “I don’t have your level of skill here, dear boy, not at all, but I am very good at menial tasks, so please, instruct me as you will and I am sure we’ll get this done in no time.”

Crowley stopped, his fingers, his breathing, his meltdown, all stopped as his glasses swivelled up to stare, his mouth ever so slightly open in a gape that Aziraphale had always loved to see. “You…” he swallowed again. “I… yeah, I can pay you. Yeah.”

Turning over the last fold of sleeve, Aziraphale frowned at him. “Pay me? What on earth would you do that for? I’m offering to help you, my dear, that’s all. Help you. I’m sure that nothing I do will be of any standard where you would even _want_ to pay me.”

Crowley continued to stare at him, obviously floored by the knowledge that anyone would ever try and _help_ him and Aziraphale tried not to wonder at that, choosing instead to start salvaging stalks of greenery from the mess on the floor, humming quietly and giving Crowley time to pull himself together.

They soon slid into a competent partnership. Crowley recovered his poise and set Aziraphale to work on stripping the roses with the lethal knife whilst he pulled white tulips and freesias out of buckets, sorting them into piles according to stem length. Next, they made the button-holes, twenty three of them, including three, tiny, child sized ones. Crowley assembled them, his long fingers a blur of precision, and then Aziraphale wrapped their stems in ribbon and packed them into the box for collection.

By the time they were all done and he’d stacked them into the walk-in flower fridge at the rear of the shop, Crowley had finished the bridal bouquet, leaving Aziraphale to tie the ribbon whilst he started work on the two, smaller, bridesmaid bouquets, and the three tiny, flower-girl posies. Aziraphale was getting far better at his job of wrapping, and Crowley was becoming less and less anxious as it become clear that he would, in fact, be done well before collection time at six. At one point, he disappeared upstairs, Aziraphale could hear him walking about in what was obviously the flat above him, coming back down with a coffee for himself, a tea for Aziraphale and some strange, grey cylinder, about he size of a tin of beans that, when instructed, started to play a selection of music by Greig.

‘ _You met him once_ ,’ Aziraphale wanted to tell him. ‘ _As a young boy in Bergen. He already had such talent, you spotted it straight away. You were so quietly happy when we got him at the end…’_ He didn’t say any of that though, and the sorrow of it all eked away at him as he sipped his tea and tied perfectly symmetrical bows out of white raffia around the flower girl posies.

They didn’t talk much as they worked, Crowley was too focussed, more focussed than Aziraphale could ever remember seeing him. He obviously loved creating these beautiful floral sculptures, teasing them into life from a picture in his head. All these years together and Aziraphale had never known the creativity that lived within him. Had he hidden it? So worried what Hell would think of an artistic demon that he buried it under layer after layer of snark and bitterness? Or maybe that snark and bitterness was all he was, maybe the pain of his Fall, that ultimate betrayal, had burnt everything else away, left nothing beautiful and nurturing behind? Or… maybe Crowley _was_ this person, this gentle artist, and yet he had hidden it from Aziraphale, his only friend, fearing the censure of an angel as much as that of a horde of demons… It was a cold, cold thought.

“Are they done too?” Aziraphale leaned over for a look as Crowley finished the last of the jarred sprigs that were set to adorn the tables of the Reception venue.

“Yeah,” he slumped back against the counter. “I just need to count them to double check.”

“Sixteen,” Aziraphale responded brightly. “Eight pew-ends for the church, three large bouquets, one bride’s hand-tied, two bridesmaids’ hand-tieds, three flower girls’ posies, twenty adult button-holes and three child-sized ones. All present and correct, I’ve just been back and checked them all.”

Crowley looked at him, halfway through raking a hand through his hair and, despite the glasses, Aziraphale knew he was blinking in surprise at him. “Great…” he seemed a little stumped by it all and silence fell over them, blanketed as they were by the dead of night. Aziraphale found himself shuffling awkwardly, brutally aware that his excuse for being here, for sharing this time with Crowley, was now coming to an end. He smiled, a little flat, he knew, and started to roll down the sleeves of his shirt. “Well, dear boy…” he started, at the exact same second that Crowley jumped in with, “Do you want a glass of wine? To celebrate getting done? It’s the least I can do if you won’t let me pay you.”

Aziraphale felt the smile light him from the inside out and left his sleeves as they were. “That would be wonderful,” he admitted and was rewarded with a returning smile from Crowley.

~~**~~

“So, by the time the archway was set up properly in the marquee, the bride was arriving at the front…”

“Oh no!” Aziraphale slapped a hand over his mouth as a grinning Crowley approached the end of his story. They were sitting on the floor of the shop, opposite each other, feet almost touching, two empty bottles of wine on the floor between them, two more set neatly on the floor at their sides.

“But, no worries, there was another flap in the back corner I could leave by, so I folded it open and took one load of boxes out, before going back for the rest _but_ … whilst I’d had my back turned,” he laughed at this part, leaning in a little and Aziraphale found himself striving for a glimpse of those eyes he missed so much, “three penguins had got in.”

The ridiculousness of the statement hauled Aziraphale’s tipsy mind away from amber-slitted eyes and back to the story. “ _Penguins_?”

“Yeah! Apparently the groom was nutty about penguins so the bride had paid a local wildlife park to bring some over for photos later on. The guy supposed to be looking after them had sneaked off round the back for a joint, though, and the little buggers had got out of their enclosure and waddled straight into the marquee as Bridezilla and her forty three attendants were all arriving at the front!” He laughed again, throwing his head back and looking so damn _happy_ that Aziraphale thought his own heart would simply burst.

“Oh, what did you do?”

“Me?” Eyebrows shot up over the tops of his glasses, “Nothing. Well, buggered off pretty sharpish, definitely, but nothing to help out. The screams were just getting started as I drove off…”

Aziraphale laughed then, caught up in the joy of it all, picturing the penguins waddling around without a care in the world, possibly nipping at the dreadful bride who had made poor Crowley’s life so difficult in the preceding weeks. Crowley laughed too, great, belly laughs as he took another large swig straight from the bottle and let his head thump against the wall behind him.

Slowly, they calmed, the odd chuckle escaping their lips as they thought back to the story and Aziraphale realised that he was content, for the first time in such a long while, he was content to be sitting on a cold, tiled floor in a tiny South London florist, with the being he loved most in all of Creation. He was even happy, despite the fact that Crowley didn’t even know him.

“Why do you wear the glasses?”

And suddenly, just like that, joy evaporated along with Crowley’s mirth and Aziraphale could have kicked himself for his drunken blurting.

Crowley dropped his gaze to his jeans and a shaking hand came up to shield his glasses from Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale’s fingers itched to reached out to him. “I am so sorry. How completely, unforgivably rude of me. I was simply thinking it, and then my silly, _silly_ mouth ran away with me and… it’s probably all this wine… I really should go, I-”

“No,” Crowley was pale, but the earnestness of his entreaty couldn’t be missed. “No… It’s fine, it’s fine… Of course you would wonder.” He looked down again then, and Aziraphale held his breath and waited, wondered if that was Crowley just giving him a pass-out, or whether he was going to get any answers – answers Crowley felt comfortable in sharing with him at any rate. He waited maybe five whole minutes and then, after another large swig wine, Crowley started talking to his knees. “So… it was five years ago, maybe nearer six, and I was in… an accident. I suppose. Yeah, an accident.”

Aziraphale watched him, not daring to make a sound.

“And I was hurt. Changed. _Hurt_ ,” he clarified, firmly enough for Aziraphale to know that questions wouldn’t be acceptable. “And now my eyes are really sensitive to the light. Any light. And they look… weird,” he lifted his head and stared defiantly Aziraphale’s way. “It’s easier to wear the glasses, that’s all.” At that Crowley pushed to his feet and staggered slightly as he headed for the stairs up to the flat. “You want another bottle?”

Aziraphale didn’t want another bottle, not really. He was still mortified that the two bottles he’d already drunk had allowed him to slip up and distress Crowley in such a way. But then… he didn’t want to leave either, not now, not ever, and if another bottle of wine would make that possible, then how was he supposed to resist? “Thank you, my dear boy, that would be wonderful.”

~~**~~

Summer sunrises are early and this one was no exception, night bled into day, and another morning spilt out across the sky in streaks of peach and powder puff pink. Crowley and Aziraphale, or rather Tom and Alex, didn’t notice however, they were too busy being absolutely bladdered and having the types of conversation that, unbeknown to Crowley, they’d always had, across many centuries and many continents, whenever they were this drunk.

“And they don’t learn! They never learn!” Crowley was gesturing wildly with his arms, bottle of wine dangling loosely from his fingers as he spoke. “You can sit there all afternoon with the biggest fuck-off bag of _Wotsits_ in existence and throw them down, one by one, and the stupid buggers pick them up, _every damn time_!”

Aziraphale shrugged, he was thinking that he quite liked _Wotsits_. They weren’t _Henderson’s Yorkshire Crisps_ , though, that was for certain, but they were still very nice. Very cheesy. Although they did turn ones fingers orange… “I prefer the Marks and Spencer version,” he admitted in a hushed whisper. “I find them crunchier.”

Crowley stared at him and then wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Nah… they’re too small. An’ anyway, they don’t fit in beaks in the same way,” he opened his mouth wide and mimed shoving a huge _Wotsit_ in it. “It’s got to be a proper _Wotsit_ , a proper, cheesy _Wotsit_ , they’re the only ones that work. An’ if you’re _quick_ ,” he put his bottle of wine down and started miming throwing _Wotsit_ after _Wotsit_ down on the ground around him, “Then you can get the who herd of them with _Wotsits_ in their beaks at the same time, all walking around like this!” He opened his arms wide then, more like a crocodile’s mouth than a pigeon’s beak, giggling crazily to himself as Aziraphale joined in. “Herd?” Abruptly, Crowley stopped, “’s not _herd_ is it, Alex? ‘ts shoal! Yeah? No…… Pack? Gaggle? _Tipple_?”

“ _Tipple_?” Aziraphale burst out laughing, splurging out his wine in a wide spray across his trousers and only just stopping himself in time from miracling it all away again. “Oh dear,” he muttered distractedly, dabbing at the offending red splats with his finger tips and just smearing the stains further, “Oh dear… _Tipple_! A tipple of pigeons!” He burst out laughing again, Crowley with him, his own fingers ineffectively wiping up the sprayed wine from the shop floor as they giggled like a pair of teenagers.

It took them a while to calm down again, and when they had, Crowley was still splayed out on the floor next to Aziraphale’s shins, whilst Aziraphale was slumped against the wall, occasionally muttering, ‘Tipple’ just to see Crowley laugh again.

“This is fun,” Crowley eventually addressed the ceiling. “Adam never drinks with me, he doesn’t believe in _alcohol_.”

Aziraphale frowned, struggling to somehow place the seventeen year old antichrist into this scenario in any manner all. “Adam?” he offered, blankly.

“My partner,” Crowley infilled. “The one who works away. You remember?”

“Ahh, yes my dear, I do, I absolutely do.”

They slid into silence at that. Crowley, no doubt, missing his Adam and wondering when he would be back so that they could spend time together _not_ drinking (apparently) and Aziraphale wondering if bringing this Adam (not antichrist Adam) into the conversation at all was supposed to remind Aziraphale that Crowley was taken, and, really, he should be getting along now, heading off home. He was just about to suggest that, to haul his drunken limbs from the floor and suggest that he should leave, when Crowley started speaking again, his voice thick with alcohol, his glasses fixed on the ceiling above him. “Do you believe in angels?”

Aziraphale froze, his heart pounding hard in his chest and he eased back down again, taking a long swallow of wine, wondering if his act had been rumbled, before answering, as vaguely as he possibly could. “Ah… well, I suppose I do, really.” Crowley didn’t reply, he didn’t even move and so Aziraphale dared prod a little more. “Why do you ask?”

The silence stretched onwards, Aziraphale was just starting to think that perhaps Crowley had fallen asleep, when he answered, his voice low and soft and so quiet that Aziraphale had to strain to hear it. “I heard a story, once, a weird one. You wanna hear it now? See if you still believe in angels then?”

Aziraphale frowned, unable to work out what was happening, but there was only one thing he possibly could do in the circumstance and so he nodded, “Of course, I love a good story.”

Crowley craned his neck then, tilting his chin up so that he could offer a lazy, sloppy and most assuredly _drunken_ , upside-down smile Aziraphale’s way, a smile that went some way to easing the angel’s worries at what he was about to hear, “Course you do. Book-shop-man.” Aziraphale smiled back. “I think you’ll like this one.”

Aziraphale wasn’t so sure.

“So…” Crowley was back to staring at the ceiling again. “Once upon a time, there was an angel. A proper, you know, lives-in-Heaven-loves-God type angel.”

“Of course.”

“Yeah. ‘Cept this angel didn’t live in Heaven with all the others. No, no, nooooo. ‘Cause this angel had a job to do. A special job. His special job was to look after Earth and all the humans who lived on it, and it was a good job to have.”

Trying to lessen the shaking of his hands, Aziraphale took another swig of wine.

“So, the angel was happy. They weren’t perfect, not like a really good angel, but they were okay, they did an okay job. And they were happy, doing that. Being that. You know?”

Aziraphale did. But he couldn’t say. How could he say a single word in response to that?

“But… every story needs a villain, right? And this villain is a _demon_.” Again, Crowley twisted his head so that he could look at Aziraphale. “You believe in demons, then? I suppose if you believe in angels you gotta believe in demons too?”

Aziraphale nodded, dumbly, and Crowley twisted his spine back into a more normal alignment.

“Well, this story has a demon in it too, so I’ve been told, and it’s a bad demon, the worst. I mean, all demons are bad, right? But this one…” he blew out a breath. “Well, yeah, the worst. Looking like a human, good at acting like a regular, run of the mill, nice guy, but evil. Mean. Sadistic. Cruel,” he stopped at that, staring at the ceiling and Aziraphale tried to breathe around the racing of his pulse. “The worst. And he was after our angel, not happy that the angel had been thwarting his evil plans for all of time, wanting to get rid of it, get his revenge.”

_No!_ Aziraphale wanted to say. _No, you’ve got it all wrong! You’re not that, you were never that! Demon, maybe but_ good _, Crowley, you’re so, so good!_

“Eventually, he caught the angel. Trapped him. Bound his powers, made him helpless.”

Aziraphale startled, wondered which twisted version of events this was.

“And he tortured him.”

_No!_

“For weeks. Months. _Years._ For no reason other than his own sick enjoyment. Slowly, he stripped away the angel’s powers, his Grace, his link with God. Tried to turn him into a demon, the lowest of the low, just like he was…”

Aziraphale’s mind was swirling, his stomach tightening with nausea, what was this? _What was this?_

“But…” Crowley’s voice was oddly detached. Detached in the way that Aziraphale recognised as when he was working so very hard to _be_ detached. “He didn’t. _He couldn’t._ Not turn him into a demon at any rate. He could only…” and here he stopped, and Aziraphale, a lump so large in his chest he could barely breathe, watched as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, once, twice, three times before; “He could only ruin him. Strip away everything God had given him. Every bit of Grace. Take his memories. Take his miracles. Turn his wings black. Burn his eyes out. And then leave him on the Earth he loved so much, loved and had vowed to protect but no longer could. Leave him naked and alone and blind and…”

Crowley stopped then, both of his hands coming up to cover his face and Aziraphale stared, the urge to comfort him almost overwhelming, the need to set the story straight a burning, unbreakable drive. He leaned over, his hands shaking. What could he say? What could he say to make this _right_ again? _Crowley…_ the word was there, right on the tip of his tongue. _No, dearest, no! That isn’t what happened, not at all! Not at all! Who told you that???_ His words were stolen though by the voice eking out from behind Crowley’s palms, the pain, the indescribable horror.

“And sometimes, I can still feel it, you know? Drifty little bits of what Heaven was like. What it felt like to be there, to be part of all that… And maybe that’s the worst bit of all of this. To know what that was like and to _never be able to go back to how it was_. I’m not welcome there anymore, _persona non grata,_ not fucking Holy enough for them all now…”

“ _Who told you that_?” it was ripped from him, bitter and furious and _who has done this to you_? trying to burn its way out into the damp little shop in South London.

Crowley didn’t answer. For a long time he just lay on the floor with his hands over his face, breathing hard, minute trembling wracking his body. Then he shifted and twisted his neck in his uniquely serpentine manner to pin Aziraphale in his sight. He opened his mouth, and Aziraphale held his breath but, before he could utter a single word, a loud hammering on the door had them both jumping out of their skins.

“Fucking hell…” Crowley hissed, scrambling over to the door. “It’s the _client_ , the fucking Chelsea wedding client!”

“It’s okay, it’s okay dear boy, don’t panic.” Aziraphale was insanely grateful that he’d closed the blinds on the shop front the night before, the _twelve hours_ before, when he first arrived at the shop. “Tell them you are just coming, finding the keys or something, and go and wash your face at least. I’ll get all these bottles tidied away.” And there were a lot of them, far too many for two humans to have drunk and lived to tell the tale, the angel was glad that he was the one who had got to them first.

Crowley didn’t reply, but he did do as suggested, yelling something fairly unintelligible through the door and then dashing up the stairs, coming back down again a few minutes later looking less like he’d spent the last few hours soaking himself in alcohol. In that time, Aziraphale had also smartened himself up, grabbed a spare apron from the hook on the wall and made himself busy by starting to bring the arrangements in from the cold store at the back.

They looked lovely, of course they did, how could they not when Crowley had put so much care and effort and _love_ into them? The clients were thrilled, asking for some business cards they could leave out for interested friends and Crowley was pleasant and polite and _off_ , somehow and Aziraphale’s stomach twisted more with every moment. Eventually, all the flowers had been carefully loaded into the car and the happy client had gone off to get ready for his daughter’s big day. Crowley stood on the pavement and watched him go, his back ramrod straight, his shoulders rigid.

Aziraphale knew him, Aziraphale had known him for six thousand years, and he understood when Crowley was throwing off very strong, ‘keep the Hell away from me’ vibes. He didn’t know what to do.

The silence stretched on, the awkwardness grew and, just when Aziraphale was seconds away from caving in, _‘Who told you those lies?’_ , Crowley turned to him with a bright smile plastered across his face.

“Alex. Thank you for your help. I would never, ever have finished those flowers on time if you hadn’t assisted.”

Aziraphale paused, swallowed, nodded. Right. Old patterns of behaviour resurfacing. Looked like denial was going to be the _modus operandi_ once more. He could do that, he supposed, for now. For Crowley. “It was nothing, dear boy.”

“It was something,” Crowley maintained, his eyes on the brightening sky. “You stayed all night. You’ve not been to bed. It was _something_.”

The angel didn’t know what to say to that.

“And all I did was fill your mind with maudlin flights of fancy,” his smile brightened, stiffened. “I didn’t even show you your sketches…”

“Tonight then?” Aziraphale just couldn’t help himself. “I could come around tonight again? Usual time?”

He knew, the instant that the words left his mouth that they had been a mistake. He saw the way that Crowley’s expression further stiffened, the way his fingers slowly curled into fists at his side. “Ah, no, actually…” he was looking at a point above Aziraphale’s shoulder, even with the glasses the angel could tell that. “Er, see, Adam’s coming home tonight. For a bit. A few days. Maybe. I’m not sure,” he shrugged awkwardly. “I’d better hang around here. See him.”

“Of course!” Aziraphale blustered, slamming down on the creeping jealousy that coiled within him. “Of course you would like to spend time with him when you see him so infrequently!”

“I’d understand if you wanted to use someone else for your wedding.”

Aziraphale’s gut twisted. “No! Of course not, dear boy, not when you’ve done sketches and everything! That’s no problem at all, there’s no rush is there? Not really. September is ages away yet. Ages. Just – let me know when is a good time, and well, we can do it then, when Adam has returned to work, yes?” He felt a lot like he was begging.

“Okay,” Crowley looked relieved, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure what part of his speech had provoked such a reaction. “I don’t have a number for you, though.”

“Soho, dear boy,” Aziraphale offered, brightly. “My bookshop is in Soho, A.Z. Fell and Co. I’m always contactable there. When you’re ready. When the _sketches_ are ready,” he amended hurriedly. “No rush, no rush at all.”

Crowley just nodded and Aziraphale stared for a moment longer before nodding, and offering up a resigned smile, slipping his apron off as an afterthought and giving off a sharp wave as he turned and headed along the cobbled street.


	7. Why Would a Being with no Memories Need Keepsakes?

Aziraphale didn’t make it home that morning, not first thing at any rate. Instead, when Anathema, Newt and Iris rounded the corner at their shop, they found him waiting for them, perched smartly on a bollard, smiling in a manner that immediately notified Anathema how tightly wound and needing to _talk_ he was. As soon as the door was unlocked, Anathema sent her husband and daughter out on a trip to go and buy pastries, and made Aziraphale one of his favourite types of herbal tea. They sat behind the counter looking out at the street beyond, side by side on matching stools, a striped cup warming both sets of hands.

Anathema wasn’t surprised, not really. Obviously, whatever it was that was going on with Crowley was something pretty huge, it was never going to get sorted overnight, no matter how much the angel might have wanted it to be. “Okay then,” she met his eyes over their cups. “Tell me.”

There was a pause, enough of a pause to make Anathema’s stomach tighten before Aziraphale let out a long sigh. “Someone has been telling him lies,” he offered quietly.

Anathema hid her frown with a sip of tea. “Well, of course they have. He thinks he’s a human flower arranger, obviously someone’s been lying to him.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Aziraphale seemed distressed. He turned slightly on his stool and held Anathema’s gaze sombrely. “He thinks he’s an _angel_. Not a Fallen angel, a… _ruined_ angel, with all his goodness tortured out of him, leaving him _essentially_ human.”

The pain of Crowley thinking _that_ , of anyone thinking _that_ , lanced through Anathema, causing her to press a palm against her chest in order to try and dull the ache. “Is that even _possible_?”

“What?”

“That an angel can have the goodness _removed_ from them. In any way.” She was thinking of the Gabriel she saw at the airbase, wondering how much goodness resided in _him_.

“No. But our friendly neighbourhood liar doesn’t seem too bothered about facts like that.”

“Oh,” Anathema’s tea scolded her throat on the way down, but she barely even noticed. “And did he say who was supposed to have done this to him? Or why?”

Aziraphale nodded, his eyes on the counter now. “A demon. _Himself_ , essentially, although of course he doesn’t know that. And _not_ himself either, because this demon did it for fun, apparently. Destroyed him slowly and agonisingly just because he was an angel. And Crowley… no, I mean, I know he is no angel, literally, but _no_ , he would never do anything like that.”

“Aziraphale,” Anathema reached out, gripped his fingers in her own. “This didn’t happen, remember. It didn’t. No one tortured him. He didn’t torture himself – anyone! He hasn’t lost his powers, he’s just lost himself, a little, that’s all.”

“And you know that?” Aziraphale’s sharpness shocked her. “You know he wasn’t tortured?”

“I know he wasn’t an angel. Not when he vanished at any rate.”

“So you _know_ he hasn’t tortured? How can you know that? The thought of that, that he may have been going through _that_ whilst I sat at home like a stupid angel and mourned him-”

Aziraphale cut himself off in a sharply aborted sob and Anathema refused to blink. “Given that the angel line is such a lie, I’d wager that the torture is too. Does he remember this himself, do you think, or has someone planted it in his head?”

Aziraphale watched her for a moment and she knew he was mulling her ascertains over. “I think he’s been told it. He also said that the torture robbed him of his memories.”

“How convenient…”

“But that he can remember Heaven, he can remember how good Heaven used to feel, and knows now that he can’t go back, oh…” The mug of tea trembled precariously in one hand as Aziraphale folded the other over his eyes, his head bowed, his aura stained in pain and regret.

A slim hand slid out and rested, gently, on his leg.

Silence slipped around them. Anathema watched as Aziraphale slowly pulled himself back together, sipping her tea and knowing that there was much more to come. “Aziraphale,” she prompted gently, waiting for his eyes to reach her before speaking again. “What is it? You know that, if we can help him get his memories back, then all of that will just drift away. So???”

He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and shining, “And what if we _can’t_? What if we can’t do that? What then? What on Earth do we do then? It’s been six years, Anathema, _six years_ , and he has no idea he’s ever even met me before!”

Anathema just looked at him, waiting, waiting for it all to come tumbling it out. The rest of it. The fetid core which was eating Aziraphale away.

“I fear it’s too late,” his voice dropped with the final tumble. “I fear that the damage done to him is too great. Irreversible. That if we even try, then we won’t be helping him, we’ll just be damaging him further.”

Ah, right. Fear. She should have realised that fear would be the dominant emotion here, it was, after all, how Aziraphale had spent most of his existence already. Fear for Crowley though, not himself, not anymore. And she could work with that, they both could, as long as Aziraphale didn’t choose this moment to become stubborn. Lips pursed, Anathema withdrew her hand from the angel’s leg and curled her fingers around her mug. “What are you saying?” her tone was careful. “Are you saying that you’re giving up on him?”

Silence.

“Aziraphale…You know that you can’t.”

“No,” he cut her short, turning on his stool, his eyes wide and blue and desperate. “I’m not giving up on him, dear, I’m not. I wouldn’t! It’s just… I need to be sure about the motive here. I need to be sure that I am doing this for _him_ , and not for me.” His eyes slid to the countertop in front of him. “I have been so selfish for so many years where he is concerned. Happy to manipulate his regard for me into getting him to do favours and miracles and such like. Happy to refuse to consider how he may be feeling, what he may be thinking. And now, now he’s so lost and hurt and _damaged_ ,” he looked up again, Anathema watched his lip tremble before he reined it all in. “Am I right in putting him through this now? Am I right to dredge all of this up? Make him doubt everything he knows? _Hurt him again_? Turn him upside down once more? Am I right to do all of that?”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale blinked at her. “You can be so sure? So quickly?”

“Yes.”

“ _How?_ ”

Anathema reached out and took his hand, “Would you rather leave him to the whims of whoever has told him that he’s had all of the good tortured out of him?”

Aziraphale blanched.

“Precisely. Now, drink your tea and let’s think what the next stage of the plan is going to be.”

~~**~~

Again, there was no word from Crowley and Aziraphale forced himself to wait for four days before he went back to the shop, armed with an excuse for flowers and a hope that everything wouldn’t just be dreadfully awkward. However, his heart sank as soon as he stepped in through the door, the change in Crowley immediately noticeable. _Furtive_ , was the word which immediately jumped to mind, and furtive was easy to spot when they’d both practised it so extensively over the last six thousand years. It was impossible to miss the way that those long fingers curled themselves around the countertop, the way that the blank glasses flicked to the door behind Aziraphale and then, almost reluctantly to his face. “Alex,” even his tone was exponentially cautious.

Aziraphale nodded a greeting, refusing to use ‘Tom’ and pushed out a little smile, reminding himself that this was nothing, this was no demand on Crowley at all, this was gentle and cautious and _slow._ Perfect. “I’ve come for a plant,” he offered, eyes flicking at all the luscious greenery lining the shelves, “as a gift for my aunt.”

The pause was miniscule, easily missed for anyone who knew Crowley less than Aziraphale, but it was a sign of surprise which equally heartened and depressed the angel: Crowley had thought he’d come here for some confrontation over the Heaven thing and had been pleasantly surprised that he hadn’t. Really, that was everything that Aziraphale had hoped for from this day.

“Erm, a plant. Yeah. Right. For your aunt,” he came out from behind the counter, carefully keeping a distance from Aziraphale who, obligingly, stood back out of his way, and ran his eyes over the assembled host of greenery. “Is she green-fingered at all?”

“Nooooo…”

“So, easy care then?”

“If possible.”

“Is her house warm?”

“Yes.”

“Brightly lit?”

“Er, no.”

“Right,” Crowley’s trailing fingers had landed underneath a smart, glossy-looking thing, its leaves thin diamonds which trembled almost imperceptivity as Crowley took it from the shelf, a sight that, perversely, gladdened Aziraphale’s heart. “Peace lily,” he explained, holding it out for Aziraphale’s examination. “Almost impossible to kill, will flower in even the gloomiest of houses, flower all year around, too, if you’re lucky.”

Aziraphale looked at the finely vibrating candle-like flower and smiled. “Perfect. Thank you.”

In another three minutes, it was all wrapped up and ready to go and Aziraphale, like the peace lily, had stopped vibrating quite so much. _A quick in and out,_ Anathema had told him _, let him know that the whole angel thing hasn’t freaked you out. He might even suppose that you’ve forgotten it, if he thinks you were drunk enough._ Setting the scene for next time, Aziraphale had thought. Repairing any damage, so that they could move on in the future. He certainly hadn’t expected any direct success, nothing like the, “Alex,” Crowley had called, just as he had been about to step back out onto the street. He’d turned, watched as Crowley shifted from foot to foot and then pushed out a smile that was really more of a grimace. “Erm, I never really thanked you, for helping out, with the flowers the other day.”

“You did, dear boy!”

“Not properly.”

Aziraphale forced himself to keep his lips pressed tightly together.

“How about I buy you dinner? Tonight? As friends?” Aziraphale’s stomach twisted at the need Crowley felt to clarify that. “Adam went back to work the other day so…” he shrugged and Aziraphale watched him, measured him and then nodded – he was always going to agree.

“That would be lovely. Shall I call back here for you?”

Crowley nodded. “About seven?”

“Seven is fine. I shall see you then. Thank you,” he smiled, a smile bright enough to light the entire street, and let himself out.

~~**~~ 

The shop was all locked up when Aziraphale returned, the shutters pulled down and the awning folded away. He stopped, confused, and turned on the spot, wondering if he’d somehow missed Crowley walking up towards the end of the road to meet him.

“Hey!” there was a shout from above and Aziraphale craned his neck, squinting against an orange-streaked sky to find Crowley leaning out of an upstairs window, an easy smile lighting his face. “Change of plan. I thought I’d cook for you. You alright with that?”

Aziraphale blinked, not sure if he were more surprised regarding the invite into the flat or that Crowley was planning on _cooking_. He cleared the surprise from his throat. “Of, of course, dear boy, but if I’d known, I would have brought some wine, flowers maybe,” his stomach tightened, worried that that was too much, far too date-like, but fortunately, Crowley only laughed.

“Plenty of flowers already,” he answered, easily. “Come around the side, I’ll meet you.”

Around the corner and into the next street, there was a single, plain door set into a sea of brick. Aziraphale was just wondering if it was the right one, when it swung open and there was Crowley, shades, black shirt rolled up to his elbows, black jeans, carefully mussed hair and stocking feet; the effect was particularly endearing. “Hey.”

Aziraphale nodded a greeting of his own and, noticing the high spots of colour on Crowley’s cheeks, wondered how many drinks he’d already had so far this evening.

“Good to see you, Alex, come in, follow me up.”

They stepped inside the door and into a narrow hallway. There was a door in front of them which Aziraphale supposed headed into the shop itself, and a narrow staircase leading straight to the flat. Crowley was already moving, his long legs eating the steps up in great strides and Aziraphale, deliberately avoiding glancing at the neat little arse in tight jeans right in front of his nose, followed.

“Umm,” Crowley scrubbed a hand through his hair and then squashed it down into the pocket of his jeans. “Take a seat, anywhere you like. I’ll get you a drink. You like gin? Could do you a gin and tonic?”

Aziraphale headed for the L-shaped leather sofa and eased himself carefully down onto the edge, his back straight, hands flat on his knees as he offered up a little smile. “Ah, yes, please. A gin and tonic would be delightful.”

“Any special requests?”

“Surprise me.”

Crowley nodded and vanished behind the counter at the other side of the room, clattering glasses and opening fridges and cupboards, giving Aziraphale chance to catch his breath and have a good look around.

It was a small flat, in keeping with the central location, a main living area with the kitchen tucked away at the back, a closed door that Aziraphale assumed led to the bedroom, a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the street at the front, and a back door, currently standing open in the still of a warm night, which obviously led out onto a wrought iron fire escape. The walls were white, the curtains a soft muslin, the leather sofa a light-sucking black, glass coffee table, huge flat screen TV on the wall and, in keeping with Crowley’s décor aesthetic over the centuries, very little else. The walls were blank, there were no surfaces on which to stand nik-naks or keepsakes, but then, Aziraphale pondered, why would a being with no memories need keepsakes?

“Here you are.”

A huge balloon glass had appeared under his nose, smelling of the botanicals of the gin and the freshly crushed limes which were bobbing innocuously under a layer of smashed ice. Aziraphale took a sip, “Goodness, my dear, that is delicious!” He just caught the edge of a smile as Crowley turned away again and forced himself to push back a little more naturally in his seat.

“Glad you like it,” Crowley lowered himself down at the furthest edge of the sofa, curling his legs up underneath him in familiar act of one whose legs had an anatomy all of their own.

“It really is most refreshing,” Aziraphale beamed at him, “I’m not sure that I recognise the gin?”

“Ah, I made it myself,” the pink flush was back across his cheeks and his glasses were firmly fixed on the ice of his own drink.

“You did? Goodness me!” Aziraphale was almost lost for words, “Was is tricky?”

“Nah, not really. And it pays to keep busy, you know? The devil makes work for idle hands and all that.”  
  
Aziraphale took another sip. “Quite.”

Crowley fell silent at that, gulping his gin in quite alarmingly large mouthfuls, even for him, and so Aziraphale looked around for another topic of conversation, spotting the kitchen at the back and clearing his throat once more. “You cook as well?” he’d never known Crowley to cook. “Goodness, Adam is a lucky man to have you.”

For the beat of a moment, Crowley didn’t move, but then he looked up, his lips pressed into a familiarly thin smile. “Isn’t he just? But it’s just pasta, and no, I didn’t make the pasta, it’s all from the little deli along the road, you been there before?”

“Oh, I have, yes! They do these lovely goat’s cheese and caramelised onion tarts! Have you had any? Oh! And cranberry and pecan brownies, they are delicious!” And just like that, Aziraphale was back on solid ground and off with the flow.

~~**~~

Crowley had cooked pasta and served it with pesto and tiny slivers of sun-dried tomatoes and anchovies. It was simple, but it was nice, and the fact that Crowley had made it himself, enhanced the flavours twenty times over.

It was such a treat, such a bone-shaking relief to sit across from him again, to talk about nothing more consequential than the weather and the other shops on the little row and the flavours of the dish and the gin and mess the pigeons made on their shop fronts. Crowley was eating as well, not that much, there was a lot of ‘pushing around the plate’ going on, but he was eating, even if he seemed to derive zero pleasure from the act. He was drinking though. Quite a bit. Enough to make Aziraphale realise that if he himself didn’t slow down, then they may well be heading from one car crash, directly to another – one that they may not be able, this time, to walk away from.

“So,” Crowley seemed to have given up on forcing any more food down himself, and was, instead, tipped onto the back legs of his chair, watching Aziraphale through his glasses and taking rather large sips of his third (fourth?) G&T since Aziraphale’s arrival. “You told Anthony any of your plans then? For the wedding?”

“No,” Aziraphale wasn’t at all keen on following this line of conversation, but managed to push out, what he felt was, a satisfactory smile. “Like I said – he’s not that bothered what I do, I’m just going to make it all a surprise.”

Crowley nodded, and took another gulp of his drink.

“That was absolutely delicious, my dear, thank you!” Aziraphale’s smile morphed into something far more natural, far warmer as he watched, carefully, to see how Crowley would react to his thanks.

He seemed to shrug it off though, and instead pushed his seat back, nodding to the open fire escape and offering, “You want some fresh air?”

There was a sizable landing just off the door from the kitchen, wrought iron and utilitarian, but still sizable and currently home to a makeshift table which had been fashioned together from a couple of wooden parsnip boxes with a sheet of plyboard nailed to the top. It was obviously handmade, and something about that twisted Aziraphale’s heart hard in his chest, and that was before he’d seen the single stool, similarly created from vegetable crates sitting innocuously next to it. He stopped in the doorway, chest tight, but then Crowley was behind him, “Here, you have this one, I’ll have the stool. Need to get around to getting some proper furniture out here…”

That wasn’t it though, Aziraphale knew that that wasn’t it, but the flush on Crowley’s cheeks warned him that any comment would be unwelcome. He sat at the dining chair, his throat tight, his eyes prickling, whilst Crowley fussed with the box-stool and the table, lighting a little white candle with a match and topping up their drinks before lowering himself onto the stool and leaning his back against the warm brick of the flat.

It was only then that Aziraphale looked around him, past the sloping roofs and skylights that were familiar from any point in central London and through a convenient gap in the tiles and chimney stacks that opened up to the greater city beyond. “Goodness me,” he pushed to his feet and leant on the railing, “You can see the dome of St. Paul’s from here. How lovely!”

From his box-seat at Aziraphale’s side, Crowley took a swallow of gin, Aziraphale could hear the ice cubes clinking together, and then he spoke, his voice quiet in the evening air. “Yeah. And if you look the other way, you might have to get up on your toes, you can see the top of Big Ben’s tower.”

Aziraphale dutifully turned to look, but found that his eyes were blurred once more as he thought of the view of the Houses of Parliament that Crowley had had from his Mayfair flat. The flat that Aziraphale still paid the rent on. He’d looked after the plants too, for as long as he could, but, one by one they had all perished, somehow Aziraphale’s love and concern not quite living up to the intensity they’d been used to from Crowley. The day that the final plant gave up the fight and perished, Aziraphale had cried for hours.

“You can also see next door’s bins though, and the alley at the back, which is surprisingly popular with doggers, so probably nothing to boast about.”

Aziraphale lowered himself into his seat again and sipped at his gin until the tightness in his throat eased and he was able to smile Crowley’s way again. “But still, an outdoor space, _any_ outdoor space, in London is always a blessing and, despite all that,” he looked around him at the purpling bruise of a sky, the illuminated bowl of St. Paul’s, the Mary Poppins roofs, the demon at his side, “it’s really quite lovely out here.”

Crowley scowled and swallowed more of his drink.

They sat in silence, side by side, as the sky darkened and the night drew on. It should have been awkward, it really should have been since, officially, they were barely more than new acquaintances, but it didn’t feel like that for Aziraphale, and it didn’t seem to feel that way to Crowley either. Tentatively, Aziraphale reached out to see if he could feel any emotions coming from the silent being at his side.

He’d only discovered that he could do this in recent decades. He’d never been sure if it had always been there and he’d only just realised it, or if it was something new which had developed alongside their strengthening bond, just like he was unsure whether it was something to do with him and Crowley specifically, or angels and demons in general. It was a sporadic science, to be honest though, sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Strong emotions were easier to read, sometimes just blasts of them, almost as though they came and, for a moment, Crowley had been unable to screen them within himself. He’d never told Crowley that he could do this, didn’t know if he could feel him doing it, and was never sure how much Crowley could do it back with him either – not that any of that mattered any more – and today he drew a blank anyway, whatever Crowley was feeling was wrapped up tightly and out of Aziraphale’s sight.

“Did you have a pleasant time with Adam?” the words were in Aziraphale’s head, had been in Aziraphale’s head for the past few days, but it was his distraction and the alcohol which had let them out.

There was a pause, for a moment Aziraphale thought that he’d overstepped an invisible line and possibly drawn the night to a premature end, but it was miniscule, really, and Crowley only took one more fortifying mouthful of his drink before answering. “Yeah. It was good, good to see him again.”

“What did you get up to, then?” Instantly, Aziraphale was overwhelmed with images of just what, _exactly_ , Crowley and Adam might have been getting up to and he scrambled to clarify his query. “I mean, did you go out somewhere? For a nice meal? Or a walk? Or to the zoo? Or something?”

If Crowley did pick up on the alternative answers to the question then he didn’t react at all, instead, his eyes stayed firmly fixed on the stretching rooftops, and his mouth twisted just a shade before his answer slid out into the night. “Nah… not really. Adam doesn’t drink, and, well he’s not that keen on eating out either. Going out at all really. He spends so much time away, he just likes to hang around the flat when he’s back. Just relax.”

Aziraphale could certainly relate to that, on occasions where he had needed to be away from the bookshop for any length of time, he felt exactly the same, wanting to stay behind his closed sign and his blinds and just live within his books. Is that what Adam wanted to do with Crowley? It was a painful, but understandable, but then, was it even _true_? Why did he have this constant nagging doubt...? 

“Forgive me,” Aziraphale couldn’t help himself, he just couldn’t, the words had taken on a life of their own and pushed out into the night, it had never even occurred to him to try and stop them. “I was wondering about you and Adam, about your relationship,” Crowley turned and looked at him, his expression blank and Aziraphale pushed on. “Well, I mean, I’m not prying you know, not at all, but I was wondering, sometimes I feel, well, sometimes it sounds as if…” he gave himself a mental shake and just spat it out there. “Well, are you happy with him?”

_(“I need to be sure that I am doing this for him, and not for me.”)_

Crowley stared at him, his expression never wavering, the absence of emotion never shifting. Aziraphale flushed and fussed with his fingers and, just at the point that he was going to swallow his pride and his hastily posed question, Crowley answered, in a voice calm and confident and steady.

“Of course. Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Well,” Aziraphale could feel the flush burning his cheeks. “It’s just, well, sometimes, you don’t really seem to be, that’s all.”

“I love him,” the answer was so shockingly blunt that Aziraphale was just pleased that he hadn’t had a mouthful of gin at the same time. “And he loves me, a lot. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?”

“Absolutely,” it was an effort to get the words out.

“So, I don’t get it, what is it, then, I’m doing that makes you think that I’m not happy with him?”

Fervently wishing that he’d never mentioned it at all now, Aziraphale squirmed awkwardly in his chair. “Well, it’s just that you don’t always _sound_ happy, that’s all. You sound… _dissatisfied_ with the relationship a little. Maybe. As if you wished it were different. That’s all, nothing hugely noticeable, it’s just,” _I know you so well_ , “I sometimes get that feeling from you. That’s all.” Crowley nodded and, a little too late to do anything about it, Aziraphale identified the edge of a bitter sneer taking over Crowley’s lips and picked up the tell-tale waft of juniper which indicated the decidedly _neat_ gin in the demon’s glass and his chest tightened in warning. “Dear boy,” he started, but he was too late, and Crowley had already started.

“Oh, you get that _feeling_ from me, then, do you? Based on what, then? The years and years that you’ve known me?”

Aziraphale flushed and looked down at his brogues.

“Or the five fucking minutes since you asked me to do your flowers. Your _wedding_ flowers. For a wedding to a guy who doesn’t even fucking care enough to show any fucking interest in what’s been planned for his wedding! So don’t poke fingers at me and my relationship!”

“I’m not, and I’m sorry, so sorry that-”

“So, what is it then? You thinking that someone like Adam can’t possibly actually love someone like me? Is that what you’re thinking is it?”

“What? No!”

“Some loser-guy who fannies around with flowers all day in a stupid little shop he doesn’t own in the arse-end of London? You don’t think someone like Adam, as _successful_ as Adam, would ever sully himself with someone as lowly as a fucking shopkeeper. Is that what you were thinking?”

Aziraphale took a breath. “I run a shop too, my dear, why would I-”

“A shop that never sells anything! A fucking collector’s haven whilst you live off your _family money_ and don’t have a care in the whole fucking world, right? Your shop is _not_ like my shop, is it? You don’t have to actually do _anything_ to get by!”

“And you do?” the unfairness of Crowley’s words, the regret in voicing any of his opinions, the gin, the awful, slippery feeling of panic Aziraphale was feeling, all made him hasty, all made him forget to carefully check the weight of his words before he let them out into the night. “You don’t even know what your job actually _is_ in all of this! Everything is paid for by Adam, everything is arranged and sorted and _prepared_. I bet he pays for this flat as well, doesn’t he? Set you up in it, gave you the shop to keep you busy, leaves you here for weeks or months at a time and then, what? Comes back when he feels like it? Doesn’t take you out, doesn’t do anything with you except fuck you? Get his payment that way? Is that what he does?”

Crowley pushed to his feet and this time Aziraphale could feel emotion coming from him, could feel the anger and knew it was, quite rightly, directed squarely at him. “You bastard,” Crowley swayed slightly where he stood and Aziraphale wondered exactly how much he’d had to drink this night. “You high and mighty, fucking _judgemental_ bastard. You know nothing about me, nothing at all!”

_I know more than you will ever realise…_

“You have no idea what Adam has done for me, how much he’s taken care of me, everything he’s risked for me!” Crowley’s voice was getting louder, his hand was gripping the railing, Aziraphale uncomfortably felt that it was all that was holding him up. “He _loves_ me, and I love him! Is that so hard for you to understand, that someone would love me? That someone would love _me_?”

His voice rang out in the quiet of the night and when it all stopped, it was suddenly, eerily silent. Slowly, Aziraphale rose on shaking legs and pulled a long, deep breath in. “I am so sorry,” his voice was low, and as scratchy as his eyes. “I spoke out of turn and offended you when that was absolutely not my intention at all. I was concerned for you, but you are _so_ correct, it is not my place to concern myself of your happiness.”

Crowley seemed to reel a little at that and his hand gripped more firmly onto the railing.

“Thank you so much for the meal, and the hospitality. I shall go now and leave you to it.” He stepped around Crowley, close enough to hear his laboured breathing, close enough to see the fine trembling of his limbs. “And no, believing that someone would love you so completely, so unequivocally, well, no, actually. That’s not hard for me to understand at all.”

He left then, his shoes ringing on the wrought iron steps, his throat tight, his eyes stinging.

He didn’t look back. 

~~**~~


	8. Being Unhappy and not Being Happy are two Different Things

_Paris, 1949_

_It had taken four years for Aziraphale to get back over the Channel and pop in to see his old friend. He’d wondered, worried, what would have befallen the tomb of one so notorious and hated during that last turbulent decade, but it seemed that the Nazi’s had had more pressing things on their minds by the time they arrived in Paris then damaging the graves of known homosexuals._

_It was upsetting, as it always was, to think about dear Oscar, and especially the way he’d died. Aziraphale had been in Brazil at the time, completely ignorant to the news until 1914 and his return to a Britain on the edge of the Great War. The guilt ate at him still, and he’d never looked into exactly where Oscar had ended up, too worried as to what he might discover._

_The tomb was untouched by hatred, though, and there was a sense of peace around it that slightly soothed Aziraphale, but still, it was a hard visit to make and it left him feeling drained and morose._

_“Hey.”_

_He jumped a little as he left the cemetery and stepped out onto Rue des Rondeaux, the voice behind him startling him from his melancholy thoughts. He turned, and there he was, leaning against yet another wall, his face trying to be blank, but creased in worry; Aziraphale’s chest tightened at the sight and tears welled in his eyes._

_Crowley’s face crumpled yet further and he stepped closer to the angel, a hand reaching out for his elbow and then retreating once more, tucking itself into the pocket of his sinfully fitted suit. “Sixteenth of October,” his voice was low enough that only Aziraphale could hear him. “I knew, when you said that you were out of town for a while, that you would come here. Is everything as it should be?”_

_Aziraphale nodded, and even managed to push a smile out onto his face; that Crowley would know, that Crowley would come here, that Crowley would wait for him when he’d never even liked Oscar… well, he really was the softest and most wonderful of beings. “It is, thank you. I had worried, you know, in recent years.”_

_“Of course.”_

_They slid into silence, a light drizzle settling in around them filling the streets with the slightest hint of Autumn leaves. Crowley sighed and Aziraphale tried to blink back the tears. “Thank you for coming, dear boy, but I know how you feel about-”_

_“Crêpes, angel?” there was a snap to Crowley’s voice which was even more unexpected than the offer. “I know of a place a few streets down that does sinful ones, you up for a little temptation?”_

_Aziraphale didn’t answer, but he did fall into step at Crowley’s side and they walked through the damp Paris streets in a companionable silence._

____

_“They really were delicious, my dear!” three servings of crêpes with grated chocolate later, and Aziraphale was past worrying about the continued rationing and back to feeling far more like his usual self. Crowley however, still nursing his first black coffee, appeared to be brooding. “Are you alright?” he didn’t really expect an answer, but he had to ask. It wasn’t like anyone had told the demon to come out here after him._

_He was surprised through. First came the sigh that told him that Crowley was irritated by his question, then came the shuffling that announced he was, actually, going to answer it. There was a few more minutes of grimacing and grouching, and then, “I don’t know why you do it, angel, that’s all. I don’t know why you do it to yourself when all it does is make you upset.”_

_Despite the tender feelings he was currently nursing for Crowley, Aziraphale couldn’t help the wave of irritation that ran through him. Of course he couldn’t understand, underneath it all, he was a demon after all, what had Aziraphale expected? “It’s just a mark of respect, that’s all,” he offered haughtily. “I know that it will make no difference to poor Oscar now, whether I come and see him, or I don’t, but it’s just-”_

_“No,” the irritation was clear in Crowley’s tone. “I didn’t mean the pilgrimage, angel, I understand that. What I meant was…” he sighed again and adjusted his glasses in a nervous tell that Aziraphale doubted he even knew he had. “Humans,” he offered, imploringly. “Why do you do it? Why do you befriend them? Love them? When all they do is live out their fleeting, mayfly lives and then, leave you? Leave you sad and lonely. I don’t know why you would do that.”_

_And Crowley wouldn’t understand, of course he wouldn’t. He had had very few friends from the humans, he tended to keep them all at arm’s length, well away from him, well away from any aspect of his life. He shook his head. “What are we supposed to do, Crowley? We’re here, we live among them, and they are so wonderfully creative and diverse and passionate… you think we should just ignore them?”_

_“No,” and now Crowley had his I-am-so-patient-I-can-talk-to-a-child voice on which always stoked a fire of annoyance in the angel. “Of course we don’t ignore them. We can talk to them, interact with them, live amongst them, but at the end of the day, we must keep apart from them because, in thirty, forty, fifty more years, they will die, and they will leave us alone. It’s not like in ancient times, you know, angel.”_

_“I know that,” Aziraphale could feel his throat closing in grief once more, his eyes prickling at Crowley’s belief that Aziraphale could live in such a cold and impersonal bubble. “And even if they did live longer, it hardly helped you, did it? Even nine hundred years of Eve wasn’t enough for you. Nine hundred years, and a son, and we all know how well that worked out, don’t we? Don’t lecture me on keeping my distance, Crowley!”_

_There was the screech of chair legs across the tiled floor and Aziraphale’s head jerked up as Crowley shot out of his seat, his face creased in anguish, his lip curled. “And I learned,” he hissed at the angel. “I fucking learned the hard way, Aziraphale. Maybe it’s time that you did as well.”_

____

_By the time that Aziraphale had settled the bill, Crowley was at the edge of the Seine, his head bowed, his eyes on the sluggish water and Aziraphale joined him, regret for his hasty words swirling inside him like poison. “I’m sorry,” what else could he say? He was. Bringing up Eve like that had been cruel and unnecessary. But he was always shocked at the flashes of proof he had of how deeply Crowley had cared for her._

_There was nothing but silence from the demon at his side. Nothing at all until the sun had bled out across the sky and the river beneath them had become a ribbon of silver lights. Crowley pushed up from the railings then, and turned his face to the moon, the white light casting stark shadows across his features and Aziraphale was reminded, so forcibly, of how different he’d looked in those first thousand years, how his joy and his unselfconscious spirit had fizzed out of him in every moment. Aziraphale could hear him now, laughing with Eve as they lay together in the sunshine… nostalgia could be a painful visitor._

_“There’s a train for the coast in twenty minutes,” he said, his voice flat, none of that joy left in him now. “We can make it if we’re quick.”_

_And there it was, the veil that Crowley was drawing over the whole things, Oscar, Eve, Cain… all hidden away for another day. Or, more likely – not. Aziraphale sighed and addressed the side of Crowley’s head. “Of course, my dear. Lead the way.”_

__

Aziraphale jerked awake in the chair he’d collapsed in following his disastrous meal with Crowley, the dream-memory laying heavy on his mind and heart. The dawn light was hazily filtering in through the rippled windows of the bookshop, a new day, a new realisation.

_“I love him, and he loves me…”_

Crowley, the immortal being who had warned Aziraphale about getting too close, allowing himself to love them… How strangely sad that he was now the one in a real relationship with a human and with no idea of the inevitable tragedy which awaited him.

What else could Aziraphale do at this time, but leave him to it?

~~**~~

“Leave him to it?” Anathema could feel the anger coiling inside her. The anger and the total and utter frustration – how could Aziraphale think that any of this made any sense at all?

Aziraphale hadn’t picked up his phone all over the weekend. At first, Anathema had thought that maybe he was just enjoying getting reacquainted with Crowley and that the obvious bond the two of them had shared before was nicely reasserting itself back in their new version of reality.

But then, she’d realised that she was snappier than usual, at Iris as well as at Newt, that she wasn’t sleeping so well, that she was picking the skin around her nails a lot and that maybe everything wasn’t going as swimmingly as she’d hoped. She finally decided that she would just turn up and see what on Earth was going on.

Getting in hadn’t been easy. She’d thumped on the door of the bookshop until her fists ached, shouting through the letter box until she was worried that a neighbour was going to call the police. Eventually, the door swung open for her, though, a composed but blank-faced angel staring at her and Anathema’s heart just sank. At the sight of her standing there, he’d closed his eyes and blown out a long breath, obviously trying to think of how he could get rid of her, then, realising that it wouldn’t be at all easy, he had turned away again, snapping his fingers and making his way towards the little kitchen area at the back of the shop.

They’d made small talk, and chatted about Iris and finally, she could ignore the elephant in the room no longer, leaning forward on the couch and fixing Aziraphale with a firm stare before asking how it was all going. Then she had listened, concern mixing with disbelief, mixing with outrage when Aziraphale finally got to the part where he explained about ‘leaving Crowley to it’.

“Yes, my dear. Leave him to it. He is happy with his young man, they are very much in love, and that, as they say, is that.”

Anathema stared at him, incredulity fizzing through every fibre of her being. “ _Leave him to it_?” she repeatedly again, she honestly felt as if they had entered an alternative reality. “All those years of thinking him dead, then finding him, spending all those weeks and weeks just walking and walking and looking for him, hearing what he thinks has happened to him, knowing how twisted and warped his entire existence has become, and you are going to honestly, seriously, _leave him to it_?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale snapped at her, and it was a snap as well and she was strangely comforted by that fact, by seeing that this wasn’t as easy for him as he was trying to make out.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Are you over-stepping your boundary as a friend?”

“No.”

Aziraphale huffed at her and turned away and she tried again, took a deep breath and stacked everything behind an iron wall of control. “Okay,” she was pleased with how steady her voice sounded. “Let’s try this again. I want to understand what you’re doing here. Please help me understand. Explain again why you are committed to leaving him to it.”

She waited as the silence wove around then, waited and hoped that Aziraphale wasn’t going to just send her packing with a flea in her ear, held her breath as the angel sulked in front of her and then, finally, let out a breath of relief as he let out a huffy sigh and turned back again. “I’ve told you already, but, alright then, if you insist, I will tell you one more time.”

She nodded, settled herself more comfortably and tried to sit on every question she knew she was going to have.

Aziraphale fussed over their cups and sipped his tea, blatant stalling strategies, Anathema realised, and then, finally offered. “He and Adam are in love. He told me so. He said that Adam loves him very much and has done so much for him in the last five years.”

“And you’re happy that this Adam is the right person for Crowley?” It seemed that she wasn’t as good at sitting on her questions as she’d hoped.

“My dear, he is six thousand years old. He does not need me to matchmake for him.”

“Doesn’t he? And I suppose that it’s never occurred to you that it could well have been Adam who has filled his head with all this angel and demon crap he’s been spouting at you.”

Aziraphale blinked and looked so incredibly stunned that Anathema realised that it obviously had not occurred to him at all. “No…” his forehead was creased in consternation. “No… and how would that be? How on earth would a _human_ even know any of that?”

Anathema had to try, very hard, not to roll her eyes; how was it that she was having to explain this all to him? “Have you ever considered that he might not _be_ a human?”

Another blink, and again, Anathema had to work hard to bite back the eyeroll. “Not a…” he shook his head, “No, my dear, I’m sure that Crowley would have said, and anyway, I would have sensed an occult or ethereal being, when I was in Crowley’s flat. I’m sure I would have.”

Swallowing back the incredulity she had felt when Aziraphale insisted that Crowley would have shared, or even _known_ , whether his new beau was inhuman or not, Anathema forced herself to concentrate on the second assertion. “Are you sure? You’re sure you would have sensed that?”

“I’m positive. And Crowley said that his Adam had been in the flat just the day before and so, yes, I would have sensed it, I’m sure.”

“Even if it was demonic? You would have sensed that over Crowley’s own demonic essence?”

“Absolutely. Crowley is most unlike any other demon I have ever had the misfortune to come across.”

Anathema sat back in her seat. “Oh. Right.”

“So, you see, dear? You see what I mean now? You have to understand how important this is to Crowley, how much he’s always _wanted_ to belong like this, have a real life and a real job and do things like arrange flowers and make gin and cook and get drunk and just _live_.” He raised his wide eyes Anathema’s way. “How am I supposed to take all of that off him?”

“How are you _not_ , Aziraphale? He has no idea who he is, what he is, no idea how vulnerable he is and how much danger he could find himself in should Heaven or Hell come looking for you both again!” 

“And you want me to tell him that his entire life is a fantasy? How on earth am I supposed to tell him that?” Aziraphale’s voice was rising, his detached angel act disappearing with every passing second, every twitch of Anathema’s eyebrows. “That he’s _not_ a wronged angel, he’s a _demon_? You should have heard him talking about demons, the words he used to describe them! How is he supposed to cope with the fact that he _is one_? And his life, his life now, he has a _partner_ and a _shop_ and he’s _happy_ , Anathema, he’s _happy_! When has he ever been happy before? How can a servant of Hell ever be happy? What am I supposed to do? _Destroy_ all that for him? Tell him he’s the lowest form of life there is? An outcast from Heaven, and outcast from Hell? The Fall always hurt him, _always_. But now he doesn’t know about it, doesn’t know that his own Creator kicked him out and _burnt_ him – I’m supposed to tell him that am I? I’m supposed to crush him all over again when he’s managed to move himself on from it all?”

He was standing, breathing hard, as angry, as _despairing_ , as Anathema had ever seen him. She held his eyes, feeling the divine anger as it radiated off him. “And why does it need to be you?” she asked him quietly. “If anyone needs to ‘destroy’ his life as it is, why should it be you?”

“Because I’m his friend! His best friend. His only friend! And I… I… I…” he slumped back into his seat, his forehead falling into his hand, his anger vanishing in a wave of guilt. “And I let them do this to him, whoever they are, I let them. I just sat and hid in my shop and I _let_ them.”

Anathema leaned in and gripped his arm. “Aziraphale. You cannot let guilt be the emotion to rule you here. You cannot make judgements on what is best for Crowley based on any guilt, misplaced or otherwise, that you might be feeling.”

“I let him down.”

“Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. What would he say on the matter?”

The tiniest of smiles pulled at Aziraphale’s lips. “He would say to stop wallowing and trying to make it all about me.”

“Well, there you go then. That’s what you need to do.”

“He was relying on me.”

“He’s relying on you now.”

“To ruin his new life?”

Anathema sighed. “His new life is a lie.”

“Well, maybe he’s better off living that lie.”

“You really think that? Living without his powers? Living a life with a human who will grow old and die and leave him all alone?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed up again, “Living without having Fallen? Without the guilt of six thousand years of doing Hell’s will? You not think he’s happier with his flowers? And his little flat?” The fire of Heaven dimmed a little, swam in water. “You not think he’s happier with his partner? His Adam? He’s craved love his entire existence, searching for it under the sheets in so many inappropriate places. Getting hurt over and over and _over_ again by humans who just couldn’t understand him. You not think he’s better off with someone who _loves_ him?”

“Aziraphale,” Anathema squeezed his arm and leaned more closely into him. “He has someone who loves him, he always has had. And he loves you too, you know he does. He willingly gave his life for you. You think he’d want fifty years with a human who can never match him, or an eternity with you?”

They slid into silence, the clock ticking on the wall the only sound in the world around them. The only sound until Aziraphale sighed, and as soon as she heard it, Anathema’s soul curled up and wept. “I’ve hurt him too. Turned him away so many times I doubt I could ever recall them all. No, my dear, he wouldn’t want the angel who was always too scared to accept him, too self-centred to go looking for him. He’s better off with his human. Far better off, I’m afraid.”

Anathema met his eyes, “You think that? You actually think that?” Silence and a pursing of Aziraphale’s lips was her only answer and her shoulders jerked in a frustrated shrug. “I don’t get it,” her voice was sharp. “I don’t understand. How can you possibly think that this life is better for him than one with you?”

Aziraphale sighed then, and held her gaze, even as a blush rose up onto his cheeks. “I apologise if I have given you the wrong idea,” his voice was low, steady. “But Crowley and I, we were never… _intimate_ , you know.”

Blowing out her own sharp sigh, Anathema sat upright. “You’re talking about sex,” she snapped. “I know that you weren’t having sex, but sex is not always intimacy. Intimacy doesn’t have to include sex. Do you love him?” 

Aziraphale’s flush deepened. “Well, yes, of course.”

“Did you comfort him? Care for him?”

“Yes!”

“Were you faithful to him? Above all others?”

A burst of angelic anger flashed her way before being hauled back again and Aziraphale narrowed his eyes dangerously. “I see what you’re doing, you know. And it’s not funny.”

But Anathema was not going to be so easily put off. “For as long as you both shall live? It’s not supposed to be _funny_ , Aziraphale. It’s supposed to illustrate my point!”

“What? That we’re _married_?”

“For all intents and purposes – yes.” It was almost comical the way that the angel’s mouth fell open at that. Anathema leaned in and placed her cup down on the table with a light chink that made him startle. “Now can you see? You and Crowley are intimate in all the ways that matter. This isn’t about sex, this is about _knowing_ him, knowing him inside and out and every way there is. Knowing what he wants and what he needs and what is important to him. And you do, don’t you?”

“Anathema,” Aziraphale’s throat was working hard, his Adam’s apple frantically bobbing. “I have not always behaved in a manner conducive to his best interests, I told you that.”

“And I disagree. You thought you were doing what he needed you to in order to save him from torture or destruction, save him from his own impulsivity. Yes?”

Aziraphale simply stared at his cup.

“Yes. I know that’s the truth, and I know that he understood that too.”

“Maybe I should have been braver. As he was.”

Sharply, she shook her head. “Maybe you should, and maybe that would have seen you both destroyed.”

Aziraphale looked up at her and she pushed her point, sensing a turning coming her way.

“Or maybe he should have exercised a bit more caution,” she shrugged, “Who knows?”

Silence slipped around them, Aziraphale obviously grappling with the perspective that Anathema was slanting across everything he knew.

She wasn’t quite done, though, not when there were further points to push. “There’s something else I don’t understand.” Cautious eyes narrowed her way. “The other day, you said that he had never been happy.”

Silence.

“Well, I’m sorry, Aziraphale, I know that I never knew him as you did, but… I just don’t _see_ that. The night he knocked me off my bike, his aura wasn’t unhappy, it _wasn’t_. I remember it being dark and complex and swirling, but I don’t remember it being sad. Not at all.”

Aziraphale startled and Anathema felt the anger swirling into life once more, “You checked our _auras_?”

Anathema shrugged, unrepentant, “What do you think my mom would say if I got into a car with two strange men in the middle of the night without first checking out whether they were psychopaths or not?”

There was no response to that, so Anathema pushed on.

“So, he wasn’t unhappy. I know that.”

“No…” she watched as Aziraphale tried to organise his thoughts into some that she would understand. “However, I suppose being _unhappy_ and _not being happy_ are two different things?”

Anathema just looked at him and Aziraphale sighed.

“I didn’t know Crowley, up in Heaven, not really. But, from what he’s said since, he was always… discontented. I wasn’t,” a tiny smile flitted across Aziraphale’s lips. “For me it was simple. We loved, we trusted, we served, and everyone was happy. Except, well, they weren’t. Not everyone. There were those, like Lucifer, who wanted change and wanted it at any price. Crowley was never like that, but he wondered, wondered if anything Lucifer and the others were saying was right, wondered if there was another way, a middle ground maybe. He wasn’t the first to go, not by a long shot. By the time Crowley was thrown out, they were looking for anyone, anyone at all who had been seen with Lucifer, anyone who’d been saying things they shouldn’t. I don’t remember the first to Fall, but I remember the last, the… the… _witch-hunt_ it had been, the fear, the accusations, the pointing of fingers… Crowley didn’t want to Fall, but he didn’t want to live in a Heaven like _that_ either.”

Silence drifted through the bookshop like dust motes. Anathema leaned over and wrapped her fingers around Aziraphale’s. “I’m so sorry…”

Aziraphale gripped back. “My dear, I didn’t Fall.”

“I know that. But it was a horrific experience for you to have to go through. Losing so many of your family in such a way.”

“It was never the same place afterwards. But Crowley, whilst he’d never wanted to live in a Heaven like that, he certainly hadn’t wanted Hell either. So yes, maybe you were correct, and he wasn’t exactly unhappy, but, I maintain, he’s never been happy either. He was far too individual to be content in Heaven, far too individual to manage in Hell. All he’d ever wanted was the freedom to be himself.”

Anathema leaned forward, her eyes burning into Aziraphale’s in her desperation to turn his thoughts her way. “I understand that – but I still don’t see why he can’t be himself with you.”

“Because he’s made a choice.”

“ _And that choice is built on lies!_ ”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, pain written all over his face. “And he _believes_ those lies. Do you want me to hurt him by dragging the truth out and, and, and _strangling_ him with it?”

“Yes!” Anathema was rapidly losing her patience. “Do you think he won’t know anyway – one day?”

“After he’s had his chance!” It seemed that Aziraphale’s patience was thinning also. “After he’s had a go at the life he’s always wanted!”

“Aziraphale – do you really think that it will hurt him any less _then_? Finding out that every one of the years he’s lived since the world didn’t end have been _lies_?” Aziraphale just stared at her, forehead creased, fingers worrying at themselves and she threw herself back in her seat. “You are such an incredibly intelligent being… how can you believe that to be true?”

She saw the pain as it ripped through him, sharp and sure. “ _You’re so clever,”_ he whispered, almost to himself, “ _How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”_

Anathema shook her head, “I never said-” but Aziraphale cut her off.

“I’m sorry my dear,” he pushed to his feet, “but my mind is quite made up.”

Anathema sat for a moment, anger swirling inside her, her dark eyes glaring holes into his angelically oblivious forehead and then she simply nodded and followed him to her feet. “Your mind is made up,” she repeated sharply. “Well then, I do hope that you can live with yourself for throwing him to the wolves like this.”

Aziraphale visibly startled, but quickly recloaked himself in his pious righteousness and Anathema decided that she’d just had enough of that for one day. Before the angel had the chance to say anything further in his defence, Anathema had gone, slamming the door loudly as she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale isn't stupid all the way through this, I promise... :)


	9. A Being Standing on the Edge of the Wrong Life

Aziraphale loved his bookshop, he really did. Over two hundred years he’d shared his life with it, filled his life with it. It had _become_ his life really, or a huge proportion of it at any rate. And woven throughout all of those years and memories and moments was, of course, Crowley. Aziraphale sat in the chair at his desk and stared at the couch, Crowley’s couch, and tried not to think.

It was an impossible task though, impossible. Crowley was all he could think of, Crowley with his love of the human life, his love of the humans, his love of… wanting to be a human, having a human life.

__

_London, 1985_

_It was safe to say, very safe to say, that Aziraphale was not a fan of nightclubs. It wasn’t as if he’d never set foot in one, of course he had, or how else would he know how well he despised them? He’d tried, he’d hated, and he’d decided that they absolutely, definitely, were not for him. And yet, on a cold Thursday in March, there he was, the London Hippodrome of all places as well, the most nightclubby of all nightclubs. Ever. But, cloaked in a miracle that hid him from all eyes, and another which cloaked his angelic presence, Aziraphale was armoured enough to stand it. It wasn’t like he needed to be there long, after all._

_The Hippodrome had changed a lot over the years. Aziraphale had visited when it had first opened, a little over eighty years ago. It was a very different beast back then, beast being the operative word. Aziraphale looked around him, trying very hard to ignore all the gyrating bodies shamelessly under-dressed for such a cold night, and tried to place the area which had housed the huge water tank and the miserable swimming polar bears. It was impossible to pinpoint after all those years of change, but Aziraphale could still picture their mournful expressions, could still feel their desperate auras._

_He shook himself out of the past and set his mind to the task at hand instead; he needed to find his target, make his intervention, and get out again before the pounding music pounded his head right off._

_He pushed himself through the sweating throng, a path opening and closing around him as the oblivious humans respected the force of his miracle. He drifted along the bars, looking over the servers in careful scrutiny. He didn’t know what his intended target for the night looked like, but he knew that he would recognise her the second she slid into his sight and, ah, yes, there she was._

_Brandy Diamond, Aziraphale reminded himself, real name, Amy Thomas, and he wondered what on earth had compelled her to change her name in the first place. He didn’t know an awful lot about her, he thought as he positioned himself at a conveniently empty stool at the end of the bar, just that, tonight, she had an important decision to make, one that would impact heavily on the rest of her life. Aziraphale’s job was to simply make sure she chose the ‘right’ course of action. He just hoped that he would know what that was. Calling an iced lemon-water into existence in front of him, Aziraphale settled down to wait._

_It was longer than he had hoped. The night wore on, the music seemed to get even louder with every hour and the smell of dry ice and sweat was starting to make him queasy. Brandy served at the bar and smiled a lot and seemed like a thoroughly pleasant sort of person and Aziraphale’s worry about choosing the ‘right’ thing increased exponentially. Finally, the crowds began to thin slightly as the end of the night rolled around and the music quietened, and the humans began to pair off and sway unsteadily in the centre of the dancefloor. Brandy and her co-workers began to wash glasses and fill up fridges and wipe down and, finally, have a little chance for conversation._

_“Busy night!” one of the other servers muttered, a tall female, with curls and curls of glossy brown hair piled up in a gravity defying manner on the top of her head._

_“I know!” Brandy was drying glasses and stacking them under the bar. “I can’t believe it was that busy for a Thursday.”_

_“You staying after? For a drink?”_

_Brandy smiled but shook her head. “No, not tonight. All I want is a shower and my bed.”_

_Her companion nodded and dropped down into a crouch at her side, pretending to arrange the glasses already stacked in place, but Aziraphale could recognise a poor bluff when it presented itself. “So, have you given any though to what I said before? Tonight could be the night, after all.”_

_Aziraphale, unseen at the end of the bar, perked up a little, his heart starting to thump in anticipation._

_Sighing, Brandy’s hands stilled on the glass she was drying. “I don’t know Linda, I mean, it’s a generous offer and everything…”_

_“Levi likes you,” Linda cajoled, “he doesn’t make an offer like this to everyone you know. It’s a very lucrative offer. Think of the money you could make.”_

_Brandy did start thinking of the money then, as she polished her glasses. The money that meant that she would be able to go to university next year instead of waiting, waiting always waiting… desperately squirrelling money away only for it to vanish in the face of a faulty boiler or a leak in the roof. How many deals would she have to do before she had enough to leave London and start her longed-for career in medicine? How much would she have to risk? How many times? Linda had been doing it for months and never been caught… surely that proved how safe it was?_

_Aziraphale, then knew what was required of him. This lady was clever and talented and would make a superb surgeon one day, changing the lives of people all over the world who had suffered traumatic limb amputations. Saving souls for Heaven: he could not let her get distracted by thoughts of easy money, damning hundreds of people to a life of misery and addiction and an eternity in Hell, all at the same time – this was going to be an easy one._

_He gave a push, just a nudge, she was so conflicted he was barely required at all, and she smiled again at Linda, shaking her head. “Thanks Lin, really, but no. I’m fine. I won’t.”_

_A wave of irritation sprang forth from Linda and made Aziraphale shudder at the feel of it washing over him. “Your loss then,” her tone was falsely pleasant, but Brandy seemed unaware. “You know you won’t be asked again?”_

_Brandy nodded, “I know.”_

_“So don’t come whining to me the next time your heating breaks or your fridge leaks all over the floor.”_

_Brandy turned then, a flash of irritated hurt running through her expression. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”_

_They slid into silence, Brandy wiping and Linda stacking and then, just at the point that Aziraphale felt that he’d covered everything he needed to and could happily head home for the evening, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled in familiar greeting, and Linda’s eyes swung hungrily across the room._

_“Well, well, well,” she whispered, Brandy following her gaze. “Look who’s made it just in time for the end of the night.”_

_Aziraphale looked as well, and, just as expected, his stomach swooped in that familiarly disconcerting manner as his eyes fell onto a slinking Crowley._

_“Mr Tall Dark and Gorgeous,” Brandy whispered back. “He hasn’t been in all week, has he?” Aziraphale felt his stomach tighten and his hackles rise._

_“He hasn’t,” Linda agreed, the smile gracing her face nothing short of unpleasant. “Which means he’ll be horny as hell and wanting to take a whole load of gear off me at the same time. Probably the lot. Probably at some ridiculously inflated rate as well,” the look became a positive leer. “Looks like my luck is in twice over tonight!”_

_Aziraphale’s hands slipped into fists in his lap as Crowley slid into an empty booth, his eyes, hidden behind the ubiquitous sunglasses, skipping, almost bored, around the room. He was dressed in a black shirt, black suit, the jacket sleeves of which were rolled up in the ridiculous fashion of the day. Aziraphale knew he’d have some of those silly canvas shoes on as well, and bare feet which was just plain stupid in the cold of a March night. American TV certainly had a lot to answer for. He’d cut his hair recently as well, got rid of the curls at the back, spiky on top look, and gone instead for a heavy fringed messy looking affair, no doubt it was also the height of fashion. Aziraphale preferred it short so that it showed off the perfectly sculptured angles of his face._

_“Doesn’t Levi mind then? You know, you and him…?”_

_“Fucking?”_

_Aziraphale’s jaw set and an uncomfortable blush rose in his cheeks._

_“Nah… not when he buys such a lot of gear, anyway. He’d be stupid to mind.”_

_“He’s looking over here.”_

_“Levi?”_

_“No. Anthony.”_

_Linda laughed. “Let him look. He’ll have to wait until I’ve got time for him. He needs to know his place.”_

_Aziraphale ground his teeth, whilst Brandy’s face creased into a distressed frown, “Linda…”_

_“Alright, alright, I’ll go and see him, here, pour us both something strong.”_

_Brandy obliged and, sashaying her hips in a quite ridiculous manner, Linda crossed a dancefloor filled with displays that Aziraphale thought best kept behind closed curtains, and slid herself into Crowley’s booth, pressing herself far closer than was considered polite. Aziraphale watched for a moment, had a second’s fight with himself and then promptly gave in, amplifying his hearing with the tiniest of miracles._

_“Linda.”_

_“Anthony,” Linda’s tone seemed to have taken on a rather unpleasant lilting tone, she must have thought it sounded coquettish. “I was really hoping you would come over tonight.”_

_Aziraphale could see Crowley’s eyebrows rise over the top of his glasses, “Really?” his own tone was one of such deep honey that Aziraphale couldn’t help the shudder that ran through him._

_Linda leant in and Aziraphale’s fists tightened even further. “Really,” she was now whispering right into his ear. “I was actually hoping that you would come over me…”_

_Shooting to his feet, Aziraphale closed his eyes to try and corral the surge of anger that had shot through him at such proprietary words. He wasn’t quite fast enough to save the bulb in the light directly above Crowley’s table though, and it burst with a bang, audible even over the music, showering Linda in fine shards of glass._

_“Oh, fuck!” the sultry tome had gone, swallowed up by shrieking East-End instead and Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s lips pressed together into a thin line. She caught herself quickly, though, leaning close to him and pressing her breasts against his arm which Aziraphale forced himself to ignore as he lowered himself back onto his stool. “Sorry,” she simpered, rubbing against him, “The place is falling to pieces. I need to go and get someone to tidy it up. You be okay here, all on your own for a few minutes?”_

_“Absolutely.”_

_Aziraphale watched as Linda’s hand disappeared under the table and Crowley leant his head back against the booth behind him._

_For another minute, neither of them spoke, neither of them shifted, although Aziraphale could see the minute workings of the muscles in Linda’s shoulder which signified that her hand must be moving quite fast under the table; he swallowed hard to keep his anger tightly coiled inside him._

_“Alright, handsome?” she eventually whispered._

_“Mmmm…”_

_She grinned and Aziraphale felt his lip wanting to curl in a snarl. “I’ll be right back… You hold that… thought right there and I’ll come back and help you finish it off,” she slid away at that, sashaying ridiculously back across the floor, seemingly unaware of the slivers of glass clinging to her lurex dress._

_“I cannot believe you would get him off in the middle of the club like that!” Brandy hissed, the second that Linda squeezed behind the bar and started looking for someone to order to clear away the glass from around Crowley’s table._

_Linda just laughed though and gave Brandy a pitying look. “I didn’t get him off, I just got him started. And even if I had, you don’t need to worry. The man is like a machine, he can honestly keep going all night, I have no idea what he’s popping to keep it up, it must be something though because he just doesn’t stop! I have never come so much…”_

_“I didn’t mean that,” the derision seemed to skate right over the top of Linda’s head. “I meant it’s demeaning. Things like that should be private.”_

_Linda looked genuinely taken aback. “Things like what? Like sex? Brandy, do you know how many people fuck in here every night?”_

_“No! Not sex… feelings! You are telling me that him coming here night after night, week after week, buying all your gear, taking you out for meals he doesn’t eat, buying you necklaces and flowers, getting you off… You don’t think he might just be into you? I mean, look at him, he could have anyone he wanted, but he’s here, all the time, just for you!”_

_Linda stopped, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide, her brain chugging through Brandy’s suggestion and then, she shook her head. “You’re probably right, but more fool him if it is true. He can make heart eyes at me as much as he likes, but I have Levi. All I need him for is his money, his cock and his extraordinary tongue. After that, he can go to hell.”_

_~~**~~_

_The police arrived five minutes after that, with sniffer dogs and a warrant to search, not only the venue, but Linda and Levi’s homes as well. Aziraphale made sure that there would be plenty of incriminating evidence discovered in all three. Once the police were done with them, Brandy and the others went home, Brandy a little lightheaded at her narrow escape and vowing to start looking at Universities first thing in the morning._

_Aziraphale hung around in the streets long enough to ‘accidentally’ stumble across Crowley who was employing a little demonic miracle of his own to escape the police cordon. They smiled, both of them expressing surprise to find the other out so late on a Thursday night in Leicester Square and Crowley accepted the invitation back to the bookshop for drinks and a catch up. He didn’t mention Linda, or the raid or the drugs that Aziraphale knew he always flushed down his toilet as soon as he’d bought them, and Aziraphale didn’t go there either._

_Crowley looked a little down, though, a little sad and, when he finally excused himself with the grey light of morning, Aziraphale thought of him going home alone to his flat in Mayfair and walking the silent halls alone, compromising everything about himself for a night of human company, waking to an empty bed and silence… and found it hard to hold back the tears._

__

Anathema just didn’t understand; all Crowley had ever wanted was to live the life of a human. How on Earth was Aziraphale supposed to snatch that dream away from him when it had finally arrived? “Here’s your chance at last, dear boy,” he whispered in a voice tight with tears. “Enjoy it. Enjoy it all.”

~~**~~

Aziraphale brooded. For three more days, he sat in his shop and brooded and trailed backwards and forwards over everything Anathema had said to him and how she felt that he was not doing the _right thing_. But he was, wasn’t he? He absolutely was, he _knew_ he was. It was the only course of action that made sense. Wasn’t it?

But then, if he was so certain, why on earth was he still ruminating on it so many days later?

Eventually, he opened the shop, desperate for the distraction from his circular thoughts. It worked. The doors had barely been open five minutes when a whole tribe of American tourists wandered in, with _children_ as well, and Aziraphale had his work very much cut out for him in trying to keep their sticky hands off his precious books – literally! After that, it was a sombre-looking man in a bowler hat, of all things, who had such the air of a serious book collector about him that Aziraphale almost fretted himself into orbit. It seemed that he was just waiting for his wife, however, and Aziraphale was most relieved when said wife popped her head through the door and summarily collected him like a child at the end of a Nursery session.

He had a brief moment of respite then, not enough to get back to fretting about his decisions, but enough for the stress levels to settle and for him to make himself a lovely cup of tea. He’d barely had a sip, however, before a young couple were in, talking to each other in hushed Italian and browsing the poetry section in such a determined manner that Aziraphale started to worry for the safety of an original Russian-language Pushkin.

Eventually, his glaring and tutting permeated through their very thick skins and, with sniggering glances over their shoulders, they left, the young man’s backpack jolting a preciously balanced pile of books as it went. “Oh, _really_ ,” Aziraphale huffed, collecting the wavering books in his arms like a worried parent and placing them carefully into the tiniest of empty spaces on a side table, under a lamp at the far side of the shop. He glanced at his pocket watch, one thirty, definitely late enough to close, he decided and, was just turning to _flick_ the locks and the blinds, when the door opened once more.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” his tone suggested that he was anything but. “However, I was just closing up for the day. It’s a half day-” and then he froze, and he stared, and his heart tried to burst out through his ribs because there, looking tense and awkward in the bookshop’s cluttered heart, was Crowley.

It was a surreal moment. Crowley, well, the outside shell of him, Aziraphale corrected himself, looked exactly as it should, standing in the middle of Aziraphale’s home. It looked as it had for two hundred years, like it absolutely belonged there. But… the core of him, the part that made him, _him_ (or, in this case, made him _Tom_ ) looked desperately, dreadfully, gauchely and _completely_ , out of his depth and uncomfortable, and for any incarnation of Crowley to look like that, well, it was bordering on abhorrent and enough to steal Aziraphale’s higher order thinking skills.

“Umm, hi?” Crowley shifted and ran a hand through his hair, stuffing his fingers into the tiny pockets of his skinny jeans as his glasses jumped around the clutter, not seeming to know what to look at next. “It’s Tom, from the flower shop, you remember?”

_Ironic_ , Aziraphale thought blankly, _I’m the one who remembers it all._ “Of course.” It was all he was capable of producing.

“Er,” Crowley shifted on his feet, the tips of his ears red, “Well, I tried to call you, like you said, but, well, I couldn’t find a number for the shop on the internet. Or with 118. Or in the phone book. So I called in. Instead. Hope that’s okay?”

Crowley was in his bookshop. _Crowley was in his bookshop_. Almost six years since the last time he’d been here, Crowley was standing right in the heart of his bookshop, right under the dome. It was just a shame that he didn’t realise how many times he’d stood there before and, him not recognising _the bookshop_ , was somehow even more painful than him not recognising Aziraphale. “Of course,” he repeated, flatly.

“Right,” Crowley’s anxious gaze skipped around the shop once more. “It was just, well…” he blew out a long breath, his hand flipping up to his hair before he caught it and trapped it in his jeans once more. “Look…” he was more awkward than Aziraphale could ever remember him being. “The other night, I’d had a lot to drink, and, well, I know we argued, or rather, I _think_ we argued, but well… I don’t remember what it was about…” he tailed off, miserable, and Aziraphale’s heart contracted sharply. “I just… well, I just wanted to apologise, really. I’m sure it was me, like I said, I’d drunk too much and, well, I’m sorry. That’s all.” 

Silence fell around them. Not one of their usual silences that was filled with comfort and security and familiarity, no, this one was tense and fragile and hovering right on the edge of so many alternative realities. One of which would set them both free, would give Crowley exactly what he wanted. 

“Anyway,” Crowley cleared his throat and pushed on through the silence his apology had wrought. “Well, it’s just that the sketches are finished now. For the flowers. For your wedding. And we never had the chance to look at them, before. And well, I just wanted to know, see, when would be a good time for you?”

Aziraphale looked at him, standing there, ill at ease, the hairs on his arms visibly rising. What was it that he was feeling? Could he feel the divinity of the place, the inherent holiness that Aziraphale still seemed to carry around with him? To infuse into the heart of his home? Maybe. Maybe it was burning him a little, just around the edges. It had never seemed to affect him before, but maybe because he knew then, maybe that had made it alright. Bearable at any rate. But this Crowley? This _Tom_? No, he was not comfortable with this light brush against the life he used to have, he wasn’t comfortable at all, not like when he was with his human boyfriend, with their human reunion, reacquainting each other in the ways that humans did – the ways that he and Crowley had never done together. He looked out of place. Awkward. A fish out of water. A being standing on the edge of the wrong life. The wrong alternative.

He knew then what he had to do, what he _needed_ to do. He’d been right all along; this wasn’t throwing Crowley to the wolves, this was giving him the chance for normality, the chance for humanity. The chance that Crowley had always wanted. He pulled himself together. “Ah, yes, _Tom_ ,” he forced himself to say the name, injected just enough frost into his voice to solidify his meaning. “I’m sorry, dear boy, so sorry, but I’m afraid we won’t be needing you for the wedding anymore.”

For a moment, the shock was palpable, and Crowley was stunned into silence. With obvious effort, he recovered himself, colour rising high on his cheeks as he took a step forward. “Look, I said that I’m sorry. What did I do? What did I say? If you tell me then maybe I can-”

“Oh no, dear,” Aziraphale might have wanted Crowley to get the message, but he certainly didn’t want him upsetting. “It’s not that at all, don’t worry about it, it’s just, well… your services are no longer required, that’s all.

Crowley thought the words through, Aziraphale could see him processing them, searching for the meaning beneath and then his expression fell as he took a step closer. “Oh, Alex,” his hand twitched and then shot back into his pocket as he stared, awkward. “I’m so sorry! So sorry… Has Anthony…?” he tailed off, leaving Aziraphale blinking foolishly at him before the penny dropped.

“Ah! No! No, dear boy, not at all, no… It’s just that, well, we won’t be needing _your flowers_ anymore that’s all. We’ve got someone else. To do them. The flowers, that is.”

He hadn’t really thought further than that. He’d only been reacting to Crowley’s sympathy over the perceived end of his imaginary engagement, had wanted to ensure that Crowley wasn’t going to offer Aziraphale his friendship in order to help him get over a perceived rejection and further muddy the waters of this already-muddy situation. He hadn’t been expecting Crowley’s expression to crumple as it had; hadn’t expected _Crowley_ to crumple as he had. It was unheard of, mainly. Yes, Crowley got angry and yelled and blustered and Aziraphale knew that he was as susceptible to hurt and upset as anyone, but the old Crowley had always hidden it so well. Had always blustered through it and shrugged it off and concealed it all under a veneer of how few fucks he gave. He’d never looked like this before. Pained. Crushed. Aziraphale’s chest tightened in response.

“Ah,” Crowley cleared his throat, tried again. “Course, yeah. Course. That’s why you didn’t ring then. Course.”

Aziraphale flushed. “I am sorry, dear boy.” Was it too late to try and soften the blow? “It was Anthony, you see. He’d already asked someone. To do them. A friend of his, you see. I hadn’t known, not until just the other day.”

Crowley appeared to haul some of that hurt back under control, wipe it all out, smooth it all over. “I see,” the tone was cutting, “I thought you’d said that Anthony was leaving everything to you?”

Beat. Swallow. Eyes flicking sideways for just a moment and, too late, Aziraphale knew that Crowley could see the lie. “I… I hadn’t realised.”

“Hmmm. No. Course not.” The atmosphere built, Aziraphale scrambled for something to say, anything, as he watched Crowley absently rubbing at the gooseflesh on his forearms. But he was too late, a decision had been reached and the rubbing hands stopped, reaching around instead, to swing a black messenger bag around to his front. “Right then. You may as well have these. No point me holding on to them.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to force some words out, anything to ease the strain, but his words were stolen as Crowley’s sketchbook appeared, dog-eared and paint splattered, touched and loved – and that was before Aziraphale had seen a single delicately-shaded water-colour.

Crowley didn’t even hand it over to Aziraphale, he just laid it down on top of a pile of books, on top of an ancient bookcase. There was another moment, a space when Aziraphale could have found something to make it all better, but then Crowley was smiling, far more like the Crowley Aziraphale remembered, bitter and thin and _hurting_. “I’ll get out of your way then,” he was already turning, “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“I’m sorry…” it was too little and too late, Aziraphale knew that. “I should have let you know, I’m sorry…” but Crowley just held a hand up over his shoulder as he left and the doors opened for him, as they always did.

Aziraphale stood in the empty bookshop, his heart thumping in the knowledge that the shop knew Crowley even though Crowley did not know the shop. His fingers were resting on the cover of the book which held lovingly crafted water-colours of his _wedding flowers_ , for goodness sake, and Crowley had just walked out of his life again. He locked the doors and drew the blinds before sinking to the floor where he’d stood, his face sliding into his hands as the first tears appeared. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, no Adam in this chapter, but he's back for the next :)


	10. A Bastard of an Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness me, poor Aziraphale did get a roasting in the comments of the last chapter - I had to work hard to convince him to return for this one! :) He would like to point out to you all that he had promised himself he was going to leave Crowley to it, and was only doing just that, it's not his fault if he's got the worst judgement in all of Creation. 
> 
> And he does get less stupid - I've promised you that.
> 
> This chapter... first of all, it's a little shorter than usual, but I have another shorter one almost ready to go, so I'm hoping to get that one out BEFORE Sunday's usual update. Fingers crossed. 
> 
> Secondly, WARNING!  
> There is a warning in this chapter for elements of domestic abuse and controlling/coercive behaviour. Please take care of yourself if you feel that this is not for you.
> 
> ______________________________

“I’d wondered if you’d had anything to do with this.”

Aziraphale turned at the quietly delivered words and saw Anathema standing in the carpark behind him, an easy smile on her face. He answered her smile with one of his own and they stepped into a hug without thought, Aziraphale marvelling at humans and their ability to forgive and move on.

“I have no idea what you mean,” he answered easily as they stepped back. “I simply saw an investment opportunity and took it.”

“Course you did,” Anathema humoured him. “And what a coincidence that such an apartment would come available at this time and on this street.”

“ _Flat_ , dear,” Aziraphale corrected her. “You are in London, don’t forget. And I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Anathema raised an eyebrow and Aziraphale smiled at her, lifting a single key to glint in the sunshine between them. “Care for a look around?”

Sliding her arm through Aziraphale’s, Anathema nodded, “Lead on, dear sir,” she deadpanned and Aziraphale did just that.

The shared lobby was clean and spacious if empty and blank. They rode the lift up to the third floor and headed along the corridor a few strides until they reached a wooden door with a resplendent, silver ‘3B’ mounted top and centre. Aziraphale used his key once more, and the door swung open, revealing a bright and airy open-plan living space with three closed doors leading off from it.

“Bedroom,” Anathema reported as she poked her head into the first one. “Bedroom with an en-suite, huh,” she closed the door on the second. “Full bath in this one,” she turned and looked behind her, “and a rather stunning kitchen. Aziraphale?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale had already made his way over to the picture windows and was sliding back the doors on the Juliet-balcony.

“What are _you_ going to do with two baths, two beds and a fully fitted kitchen?”

Aziraphale stirred at that and threw a glance over his shoulder. “Oh. Nothing, my dear, nothing. I shall just ignore them, I would imagine. Apart from the kettle. And maybe the toaster.”

Wandering across the laminate flooring to join him, Anathema looked out of the window and down, taking in the familiar lilac awning of the property across the street from them and just slightly to the left. The windows of the flat above the shop were just below the level they were on, up on the third floor, but Anathema was certain that, with a possible bit of ethereal intervention, someone so inclined might be able to see right into them. She looped their arms together once more. “So, not throwing him to the wolves after all, then?” she offered quietly.

“Not at all.”

“Just stalking him instead?”

  
Aziraphale sighed and gave her a withering stare. “Not stalking him. Just being nearby. Just in case. That’s all.”

“Just in case of what?”

“Anything he needs.”

Anathema nodded and they fell to silence, staring at the awning and the dancing shadows made by the hidden blooms in their metal buckets. “What happened to the people who were here?” she asked into the silence. “Where did you send them?”

“Nowhere at all,” Aziraphale threw her an insulted glance. “They had a young baby who was starting to become mobile, which was very worrying for them, given this balcony arrangement, and they had simply been awaiting a property becoming available in the same village as the baby’s grandparents. That’s all.”

“I see,” Anathema had an irritating smirk plastered all over her face. “And such a property has become available now, has it?”

“Yes.”

“At very short notice?”

“Very.”

“And so everyone is happy?”

“Incredibly so.”

“Good.”

Aziraphale felt her rest his cheek against the ancient material of his coat as they stood side by side at the window and watched the shop below them. 

~~**~~

Aziraphale found it surprisingly easy to settle into the flat in Waterloo. After Anathema had returned to her own shop that first day, he’d wandered back to his and stood in the centre of the main room, sending things miraculously a few miles across town. The chair went first, which he set up in the window. Then a footstool. One of the smaller bookcases, which he filled with a selection to keep him going. His desk, as an after-thought. His kettle, toaster and a few essential grocery items. A couple of gentle lamps. A selection of clothes in an old carpet bag. His gramophone. Then, he set up a ward which would tell him immediately should Crowley, well, any demon actually, try to gain access to the shop and, finally, left a sign in the door saying that he would be closed for the foreseeable future.

Life in the flat was different, yes, but not unpleasantly so, not at all. He soon fell into a routine, one very much driven by Crowley’s own. He spent a lot of time at the window, sitting in his chair with a book open in his lap as he watched the entrance to the shop. Crowley left his flat from the side door at around three-thirty a.m. most mornings, off to the flower market, Aziraphale knew. He was back in a taxi around six, unloading his choices from the boot and paying his fare before carrying them carefully into the flat. He reappeared to open up around eight forty-five and, until the canopy was pulled down, Aziraphale was free to watch him bringing out the buckets of flowers and stacking them carefully under the window. Tuesdays were a treat, as then he stood outside in his jeans and shirt sleeves and washed the windows down himself, reaching and stretching whilst Aziraphale guiltily ate it all up from the privacy of his flat.

Once the awning came down, however, there was very little to see. The shop was busy, a steady stream of customers throughout the day which Aziraphale was glad of as, at least, it gave Crowley someone to converse with, but he couldn’t see in and so had no idea what the demon was actually doing all day. Flowers came out though, big bouquets, small bunches, the odd prettily wrapped plant and Aziraphale liked to see them all.

Closing up at the end of the day offered another chance to check in, so to speak. Crowley followed the same routine of folding up the awning, then bringing the plants in before finally lowering the blinds and turning the sign to closed. Aziraphale could also see the side door to the flat from his carefully chosen vantage point, although not the fire escape at the back where he suspected that Crowley spent most of his time in the evenings. He certainly never went out, only very occasionally in the cover of darkness with armfuls of his unwanted flowers or to the twenty-four-hour Spar in the next road along, but never for long and never to socialise with anyone at all. And no one visited, no one called around for pasta and gin and tonic, no one knocked at the side door and asked him out for a drink. No one at all. Aziraphale wondered if that bothered this very-human Crowley.

At least when he was in the flat, Aziraphale could see him, a little, sometimes. He could see him standing at the windows, looking out into the street, the haunting strains of his music drifting out through the open windows. He could see him reclined on the sofa, eyes fixed on the TV, although he couldn’t see what it was that he was watching – wondered if he had rediscovered his love for the _Golden Girls_. He could see him moving around a little, as long as he was close to the windows and not near the kitchen or in the bedroom. And he could see when the flat went dark and still and quiet, around ten thirty every evening, like clockwork, a Crowley who always liked sleep, preparing for his early morning walk into Covent Garden. 

It was strange, really, considering that Aziraphale was so tuned in to Crowley’s routine, that he missed Adam’s arrival. He wasn’t sure how he had, at first, although he soon realised that something had changed. The canopy had been rolled back a little earlier than usual and Crowley had seemed rushed when he’d done it. Aziraphale had seen all of the left-over blooms, the day had been a slow one for customers, and had been looking forward to Crowley emerging with his masterpieces later in the evening, but that had not happened. Instead, the lights had been on in the flat, strange as it wasn’t even dark and Aziraphale knew exactly how good Crowley’s night vision was. There had been no moving around though, no glimpses of Crowley from the window, no music and no early morning trip to the flower market. In fact, the shop didn’t even open up at all.

Crowley had eventually, and briefly, appeared in the shop at nine-thirty, wearing a pair of loose shorts and a t-shirt and just to leave a ‘Closed for the day, sorry for any inconvenience’ sign on door. It was then that Aziraphale suspected what was going on, and his vigilance was rewarded later in the day when two shadows were seen moving about towards the rear of the flat. Aziraphale’s heart ached at that, which was ridiculous and selfish as this entire thing had been done just to give Crowley and Adam their chance at happiness. Surely Adam being there with Crowley should make him happy? Surely, he should be magnanimous enough to feel pleased that Crowley and his love were together?

“Ah, but you always have been a bastard of an angel, haven’t you?” he whispered to himself as he moved off to get some wine, “Too much of a bastard, it would seem, to allow your dearest friend the happiness he deserves.”

~~**~~

Adam stayed two days and two nights, that was all, and however he’d managed to get in without Aziraphale seeing him, he left in a very obvious manner indeed.

Crowley had gone to the flower market on the second day of Adam’s trip home, alone, and the shop had opened up as usual. Aziraphale had watched like a hawk all day long, desperate for a glimpse of this person that had stolen Crowley’s heart and eventually, a little before four-thirty, his patience paid off. He saw them both step out from the darkness of the shop and stand under the awning, Crowley in the doorway facing out into the street, Adam in front of him, his back to Aziraphale and the pavement as they conversed. Aziraphale leaned in a little.

He could see Crowley’s face, he was standing far enough back that he was out of the cover of the awning whilst most of Adam remained hidden, and the pain in his expression was as clear as day. “Oh, you poor boy,” Aziraphale whispered, feeling his heart twisting uncomfortably inside him. They were talking, or rather Adam was talking, and Crowley was looking down at the ground, his mouth set into an unhappy line. “Give him a hug,” Aziraphale whispered into the silence of his own flat, “Come on, Adam, give him a hug, can’t you see how he needs it?”

Adam did move then, his hand reaching out and taking hold of Crowley’s chin, tugging it up forcefully enough to have Aziraphale frowning and noticing as the line of his mouth curled a little in anger more than despair. He frowned, the frown only deepening as Adam’s hand moved again, tapping at his cheek this time. Not striking him, not at all, nowhere near hard enough for that, but a tapping, insistent, irritating and enough to get Crowley turning away to the side, just for Adam to grab his chin and pull him back again. Aziraphale felt the hairs on his arms rise.

The conversation carried on. Adam dropped his hand and Crowley kept his face pointing front and centre. Aziraphale took a moment to study him, tearing his eyes away from what he could see of Crowley’s taut expression underneath his glasses, to assess what he could of Adam. Due to the angle of the awning, he could only see from mid-spine downwards. Adam was wearing a silvery-grey jumper, lambswool or cashmere, something like that, and a pair of tailored jeans. He was broad, broader than Crowley at any rate, and had a body that spoke of working out. His clothes looked expensive and impeccably cut which reinforced Aziraphale’s impression of how Adam must be paying for all of this, the flat, the flower shop, keeping Crowley’s entire existence going.

As Aziraphale pondered all of this, Adam stepped in, closer to Crowley so that they were pressed almost chest to chest and, surprisingly, Crowley tried to step back. He couldn’t though, not with the edge of the door pressing into him and Adam just crowded in even more closely. Something in Aziraphale’s stomach twisted again and his eyes narrowed as he watched Adam’s hand rise once more, running gently down the side of Crowley’s face, a Crowley who was currently resembling a statue. Then the hand moved, sliding up, over an ear and into all of that wonderfully vibrant hair. Aziraphale gasped as it then _grabbed_ , the force clear from all the way across the road and, unheeded by his consciousness, he rose, slowly to his feet.

Adam used the grip in Crowley’s hair to twist his head to the side and then kissed him, hard and forceful, his knuckles white as held Crowley still, his mouth hungry and greedy and taking, the force of it all knocking Crowley’s skull against the door frame.

The kiss went on, Adam leaning further and further into Crowley’s body until Aziraphale could see that he was actually using his other hand, the hand that wasn’t pinning his partner against the wall, to vigorously rub at the front of his jeans. Crowley’s own hands, both of them, Aziraphale noted, were pinned to his sides, curled into tight fists. Anger swirling in front of him, Aziraphale stepped right up against his own window.

Then, as abruptly as it had started, the kiss was over. Adam stepping back, releasing Crowley from every physical hold he’d had on him, tugging down his own jumper, adjusting himself within his expensive jeans and talking again, taking a step further back so that Aziraphale could see the back of his dark, neatly combed hair, could see that ways that his ears shifted as he talked at Crowley.

Crowley himself hadn’t moved at all. He was still pressed against the doorframe, his lips shining-wet and red from the force of Adam’s kiss, his entire body rigid, his hands still clenched at his sides. Adam said something, waited and said it again, loud enough that Aziraphale could hear the sharp tone of it if not the words and something inside him started to stutter in dawning comprehension. Crowley didn’t answer, didn’t react at all, and so Adam reached up and tapped his face again, this time pulling an instinctively defensive cringe from the demon pressed against the wall. He nodded though and said something, his lips barely moving in answer, but it was enough for Adam who nodded in return and stepped back again, under the cover of the awning once more, turning to walk away, to leave.

Aziraphale was so concerned for Crowley at that moment, that he almost let Adam leave unchecked. He was so distressed by the flush on his friend’s cheekbones, the rigid manner he held his body, the thin press of his lips, the creeping realisation that maybe he had been, instinctively, right about all of this from the start, that maybe his later assertion that Adam was exactly what Crowley needed was actually very, very inaccurate. He was thinking this, was thinking that perhaps he’d misjudged, perhaps he’d mis-stepped in his calculations, when he remembered that Adam had walked away. That Adam was coming his way, the shadow of the awning no longer blocking him from view. Aziraphale could tell from Crowley’s entire demeanour how miserable he was, how cowed and, quite frankly, _brutalised_ he was, how lost and alone – and that was before he took in the features of the smugly-punchable face that was smiling broadly to himself as he strolled through the quiet streets of south London and back towards the escalators which would take him home.

Aziraphale didn’t stop to think. In the blink of an eye he was in the lobby of his building, rushing out of the doors at the back and through the narrow walkway which brought him to the cobbled street at the front. Crowley was no longer pressed against his own doorway and ‘Adam’ was nowhere in sight. Aziraphale drew in a shaky breath and, without thought at all, ran across the road and burst into the silent shop.


	11. Guardian Once More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus update - as promised :) 
> 
> __________________________

Barely registering that the door had been closed and locked, Aziraphale blasted it open and almost flew inside. He pulled himself up, just, as his consciousness relayed the picture in front on him straight into his frazzled mind. Crowley was still in the room, currently flattened up against the wall behind the counter, his eyes, sunglasses absent, red-rimmed and pooling with moisture, but flooded fully yellow, their slit pupils wide and black. 

Aziraphale desperately wanted to rein himself in, desperately wanted to retract the terror he could almost taste, but… how much time did he have here? “You are in danger, dear boy,” the panic was blurring his words. “Terrible danger, you need to come with me, _now_ , you need to!”

He reached out and Crowley flung himself further away, crashing into the far corner of the room, his hands held up in front of him as he desperately tried to ward Aziraphale away. “What? _What_? Alex? What the fuck? What the actual fuck?!”

“We don’t have time for this!” Aziraphale’s worry was increasing exponentially. “We don’t have time, but you need to leave. Do you understand me here? You need to leave; Adam is _not_ Adam and you are in danger! Please, Crowley, _please_ , you have to believe me!”

The effect of Aziraphale’s words was instantaneous and far, far from anything Aziraphale himself had hoped for. If anything, Crowley’s eyes widened further and his desperate attempts to squash himself into the corner of the room intensified. Over their many centuries together, Aziraphale had seen Crowley frightened, of course he had, but never of him, and never in such a desperate, panicked terror. “What did you call me?” his voice shook, his entire being shook. “ _What did you call me_!? Who are you? What do you want, _what could you possibly want now_?”

Frustration swirled frantically in Aziraphale’s chest, but he tried hard to pound it down, tried hard to appear calm and in control, anything to attempt to scrape that appalling look of horror from Crowley’s face. He took a deep breath. “Look, my dear, listen to me. I know that this is tricky and that you’re confused, but I am trying to help you, here, to save you and so you have to listen to me.” Crowley stared, but didn’t reply and so Aziraphale pushed on. “That man, that man you know as Adam, isn’t Adam at all – he isn’t even a man, not really.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “No? What is he then?”

Aziraphale let out a breath. “He’s an angel, an archangel actually, the Archangel Gabriel to be precise, but don’t think of Christmas cards and nativity plays! No, dear boy, he is dangerous, very, very dangerous. And I don’t know what game he is playing with you, but you have to leave, now, with me. _Please_ trust me,” he held his hand out again.

Crowley did not look shocked by that revelation, an observation that Aziraphale would not pick up on until well after the time. “Trust you?” he remained plastered up against the wall.

“Yes.”

“And what are you, then? To know all of this? You expect me to trust you and yet you don’t tell me what you are?”

Aziraphale sighed, they really did not have time for this, but if it was what it took, what it always took, well, he would do it twenty times over for Crowley, on any day of the week. “I too am an angel. A Principality, actually, put on Earth to protect the-”

“And what is your name?” Crowley interrupted, his voice was low, dangerous, swirling in something that Aziraphale couldn’t place.

“My name?”

“Your angelic name. Your name of angels. Not Alex, surely. No angels are called _Alex_.”

He didn’t even pause to think. “Aziraphale.” If Crowley wanted something to trust, well, he could have anything he ever desired. “My name is Aziraphale, and I-” He stuttered to a halt as Crowley closed his eyes, swaying slightly on the spot and paling alarmingly. “Dear boy, are you-”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed, opening his eyes and blinking through the frightened tears that swam in them. He started speaking then, in Angelic tongue, and Aziraphale was so stunned, so utterly confused that he just stood and stared, his mouth hanging open slightly as the words tumbled from Crowley’s mouth, quick and desperate but accurate and obviously well practised. Words designed to manipulate the fabric of the very world, designed to control and bend the ethereal to the will of the speaker, words designed to-

“No!” Aziraphale, slow angel that he was, caught on eventually, caught on a little too late. Caught on just in time for Crowley to finish the invocation and for the world around him to swirl and skip, depositing him clumsily on the pavement outside the shop, the shop he could still see but, as he threw himself to his feet and swiped for the door handle, could no longer touch.

“Fuck…” he whispered under his breath and instantly tore around to the side door, scrabbling for a handle which wouldn’t let him touch it, trying to shoulder-barge a panel that just wouldn’t sit still for him. He had a similar lack of success in getting into the back yard, and, when he spread his wings and pushed up into the sky, couldn’t even get close enough to look in through any of the windows, never mind alight on the roof.

“Fuck!” he hissed again, landing back in the street and idly altering the memories of the human woman standing staring at him with her mouth open, before taking a huge breath and yelling, “Crowley!” out into the evening warmth. There was no answer though, not a sign of life or a single movement to be seen from Fortress-Crowley. Dejected, terrified, frustrated and furious, Aziraphale took a huge breath and simply stood, cloaking himself in a glamour which would allow all human sight to slide right off him, and then he waited, Guardian once more, but this time of a little flower shop in South London and the demon hiding inside. He stood and he glowered, and he just waited. It was all he had.

~~**~~

“Aziraphale!” Anathema turned on the spot, the early morning commuters giving her a wide berth as she desperately scanned the street around her, her anxiety palpable in every line of her being. “Aziraphale!” he was here, she could tell that he was near, or that some version of him was at any rate, but where? And what on Earth had happened here?

She had felt it the very second that her little family had alighted at Waterloo. There was a _shift_ in the air, a change. Something supernatural had occurred overnight and somehow, she just knew that Aziraphale had been involved.

It was strongest here, in the street outside Crowley’s shop. But there was no sign of Crowley, no one had answered when Anathema had pounded on the door, yelling ‘Tom!’ for all she was worth. There had been no flicker of life from inside, no response, no sign of Aziraphale but she knew he was close, she knew it, she could feel him.

“Anathema, my dear,” and suddenly, there he was, shimmering into view behind her, his shoulders stooped, his face drawn and worried and she ran to his side, grabbing at him, checking him over.

“Aziraphale! What’s happened? Something has happened, hasn’t it? Something to do with Crowley? Is that it?” Her blood ran cold, the silent shop, Aziraphale’s obvious distress, “Is he okay? Oh no, _is he okay_?”

Aziraphale’s blank eyes were on the shop front as he slowly shook his head. “I’ve made such a terrible mess of things,” he whispered, “Such a terrible mess. And now I could have lost him for good.”

“Aziraphale,” Anathema moved in front of him and took hold of his face in her hands, “look at me.” She waited, pressed a little with her palms and tried again. “Look at me,” he did. “Is Crowley hurt?” Minutely, the head in her hands shook slightly from side to side and Anathema let out a breath of relief. “Is he still in the shop?” A nod this time. “But he won’t let you in?” Another shake, tears brimming at the edge of his eyes and Anathema leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Come on,” she whispered, her hands sliding away, one of them threading its fingers through Aziraphale’s cold ones, “Come with me. Let’s go back to the flat and talk about this.”

Fifteen minutes saw them standing in the window, a steaming cup of tea for each of them, both looking down at the still and silent book shop. Anathema took a sip and let out a long sigh. “And you are sure that it was Gabriel?”

Aziraphale shuddered. “Positive.”

Anathema shook her head, “But what is he _doing_? You say they kissed; you think this is real? You think Crowley and Gabriel have fallen in love?”

The angel turned then, allowing his full consciousness to fall on Anathema and she couldn’t help drawing a breath and taking a step backwards, the anger, the fury… she’d not been frightened in Aziraphale’s presence for many years. “They are not _in love_ ,” there was pure venom in his voice. “Gabriel loves nothing but himself. And it wasn’t a kiss, not a kiss of love at any rate. It was control and violence.”

Shuddering, Anathema turned back to the shop. “And yet he threw you out when you told him who you were. Why would he do that?”

“In fairness,” there was still that bitter edge to Aziraphale’s voice, “I didn’t get to say much before I was banished. He was terrified of me, terrified. I have honestly never seen him look like that before.”

“You think,” Anathema’s voice was cautious, “that Gabriel taught him that invocation?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And that Gabriel is the one who has been lying to him?”

Thin lipped, Aziraphale nodded.

“You think,” Anathema shuffled slightly, reaching her fingers out to graze gently, comfortingly against his wrist. “The demon who supposedly tortured Crowley, you think Gabriel gave him _your name_?”

She felt the tremor of pure agony which ran through him in her fingertips. The pain, the sorrow, the feeling of failure, the fear. She barely saw him nod in reply.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” placing her cup down at the little table which held his most recent book, Anathema slid her arms around him and pulled him tight, resting her cheek on his shoulder as they both watched the little shop across the road.

~~**~~


	12. Hatred Did Not Come Naturally to Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone in the mood for a confrontation?
> 
> _________________________________

“I don’t know what to do.” Aziraphale admitted as Anathema returned, empty handed, from yet another attempt to get Crowley to talk to her. “Do you think he’s even still in there?”

“I do, yes,” she confessed, joining him at the window and staring out across the darkened street. “I’m sure I can sense him.”

Aziraphale couldn’t. Gabriel’s research had been thorough and now every aspect of Aziraphale’s being was barred from any contact on any level with anything inside the confines of the shop. He glanced Anathema’s way, almost dreading the answer, “And, how is he? Could you sense that? At all? My dear?”

There was a pause as Anathema obviously wrestled with what she was going to reply to that, but then she turned, her mouth pressed in a sad smile, her fingers gathering Aziraphale’s own for maybe the hundredth time that long and fruitless day. “He’s scared,” she whispered gently, “and he feels very much alone. I think he’s been trying to contact Gabriel, get him back down here to help him out, but he’s certainly not come. He feels betrayed.”

There was a painful clench in Aziraphale’s stomach at that, “By Gabriel?”

“Partly.”

“By me?”

Anathema shrugged. “He’d thought you were friends. Now he thinks you were just trying to finish him off.”

The clench strengthened its hold on the angel’s insides.

“I need to speak with him,” the frustration was growing. How could he let Crowley sit there and think those things and feel so, so alone when he was here and would help him, would always help him, no matter what? How could he let Crowley think he was alone when he wasn’t?

At his side, Anathema sighed. “I know, but what can we do? You can’t get anywhere near him, he won’t answer the door to me, won’t pick up his phone, you can’t materialise either of us in there with him…”

A light bulb lit in Aziraphale’s mind then, the first spark of light he’d felt in a long twenty-four hours. He pushed away from Anathema, hurrying over to his desk and, three hours later, watched with bated breath, as Anathema pushed a very fat envelope through the letter box of the flat. He let out a long sigh and flopped into his seat as Anathema waved at him, on her way to find a taxi. That was that then, all he could do. The ball was firmly back in Crowley’s court – all he could do was wait.

~~**~~

For three days, there was nothing. Aziraphale sat in his seat at the window and watched the silent shop and waited and wished and hoped.

Then, in the late morning of the fourth day, he sensed an other-worldly presence materialise in the room behind him and, slowly, sombrely, turned to find Gabriel standing there, grinning at him like the idiot he was. The wall of hatred that reared up inside his chest surprised him, Aziraphale was a being of love and hatred did not come naturally to him, but there it was, waves and waves and waves of it, so much that Aziraphale had to fence it back, ring it in reinforced concrete and station guards at its gates.

He stood, martialling his face into impassive and waited, wanting to see how Gabriel was planning on playing this game out.

“Aziraphale!” the grin spread wider. “Great to see you, buddy! How you been? You been keeping alright?”

Aziraphale stared at him, bit down on that hatred once more and forced his words out through unwilling lips. “What do you want?”

He got a shrug as his first response, as if Gabriel had expected more from his friendly opener and Aziraphale’s surliness had let him down. He was never going to leave this conversation without making it as excruciating as possible, though. “Well,” he allowed the stupid grin to slide from his face, replaced instead by an expression of theatrical disappointment, “I’m afraid I’m here to have some rather stern words with you.” Aziraphale didn’t flicker, not even when Gabriel sighed, not even when he looked down his nose, the tone of his voice dramatically accusing. “It seems, Aziraphale, former-Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, that you have upset my _boyfriend_.”

That did it though, that stupid, pouty, ridiculous provocation could not be bourn and the anger lashed out within him, washing around the room, rattling the teacups and getting one of Gabriel’s eyebrows rising up into his hairline. “Crowley is not your _boyfriend_.”

The smile was back at that, wide and supercilious and completely infuriating. “Welllllll… he is. Actually. In fact, he’s my _everything_ really; anything I want him to be that is. You see, I _found_ him, I re-invented him, and so now – I own him. Yeah. Boyfriend, property, tool of manipulation… if I can think it, he can be it.”

There was so much in that little speech, so much, but all Aziraphale could focus on was, “You _found_ him?”

Gabriel perched on the edge of Aziraphale’s desk, smoothing out the wrinkles in his crease-free trousers and demurely folding his hands, one on top on the other, across his knee, smiling again, and Aziraphale had never, ever wanted to inflict violence on another being anywhere near as much as he wanted to then. “I found him, yes. Finders-keepers, don’t they say?”

“Found him, _where_?”

Nose wrinkling, Gabriel gave out an elaborate shrug. “I don’t know. Earth somewhere. In some grass, well, mud really. A few weeks after the stunt you pulled with the Anti-Christ,” his eyes narrowed then, betraying how bitter he felt about that day so many years on.

“In some _grass_?”

“Hmm-mm. A _field_. With cows. It had been flagged on the Earth Observation files, a strange amalgamation of ethereal and occult energy in a dumpy little nowhere part of Northern England. The readings were strange, so Michael and I went to check it out and what did we find but your little buddy there, the same little buddy we had presumed fried on that airfield.” He sighed and folded his arms across his chest, looking at Aziraphale with the utmost distaste. “By then, _unfortunately_ , the orders had come down from on high _and_ below that _you_ weren’t to be touched, _he_ wasn’t to be touched,” that was news to Aziraphale, “and so my hopes for a fiery barbecue had been dampened. What else was I supposed to do?” he shrugged, wide and supercilious, “it was just too good an opportunity to miss.”

“What did you do to him?” Aziraphale edged forward, the anger flashing through his veins, ruthlessly corralled inside him. “Why doesn’t he know who he is?”

Gabriel shrugged again graced Aziraphale with another of his stupid smiles. “I didn’t do anything; he was like that when I found him. That and ridiculously pathetic, barely conscious, naked and filthy, _rolling in the mud_!” He shook his head, disgusted, and leaned in a little. “On a whim, I saved him. You’re welcome, by the way. Don’t mention it.”

“Saved him?” Aziraphale spat, “You fed him a lifetime of lies.”

“I saved him! You should have seen how wretched he was, cringing and frightened, no idea what he was, no sign of his powers…” Aziraphale’s stomach turned. “I saved him, and since I wasn’t really supposed to destroy him, I thought I’d mess with him instead.”

Aziraphale frowned. “But why? What was he to you? He never did anything to you, it’s Hell that should want to revenge themselves on him, not you.”

Brushing imaginary dust from his jacket, Gabriel shrugged again. “He is nothing to me,” he admitted, “nothing but a distraction. It was just a bit of fun at first, couldn’t really resist it, him just sitting there like that, so soon after the pair of you had ruined everything like you had. Thought I might get a chance to get a little of my own back.” His eyes lifted then, more violet than lilac. Cold and hard and, despite himself, Aziraphale took a step backwards. “But, ohhhhhh, it was better than that, wasn’t it? Far better, because it suddenly occurred to me what a blank canvas he was. It suddenly occurred to me the opportunity it all presented. He didn’t know who he was, he didn’t even know _what_ he was! How was I supposed to pass that by, huh? You expected me… to what? Hand him in at the police station? The local dog shelter? You would have preferred I took him back to Beelzebub?”

“I would have preferred you took him back to me.”

Gabriel cocked his head, seemed to be considering and then the shit-eating grin was back, sliding across the room and almost choking Aziraphale in its cloying deceit. “Nah… As if I was ever going to do that!” he laughed at his own cleverness. “No, I had a much, _much_ better idea,” he leaned in, conspiratorially. “At first, I thought I’d just mess with him a bit, figured it would be a laugh, that in a couple of days at the most he’d have his memories back and Beelzebub would find out about him and they’d be _buzzing_ all over me about giving him up, but none of that happened, none of it at all. He never worked out what he was, Beelze has never even mentioned him to me… so it’s been far, far better than I ever dreamed.”

He sat back, folded his arms, ran his eyes over Aziraphale, appraising. “You did a good job, you know, of being deceitful. Of being a fucking _liar_. At hiding the level of collusion you and he were involved in. Colluding instead of serving Heaven, I might add. Betraying your fellow angels in order to develop relations with a demon…” he shook his head. “Betraying our Maker _every damn day_.”

“I never did! I-”

“Shut it!”

Aziraphale almost swallowed his tongue at the heavily Graced command and Gabriel took the opportunity to carry on. “I mean, I knew that you and he had been working together, I’d seen the photographic evidence after all, but it wasn’t until I started listening in to your little trips out with that human witch that I realised how deep you’d actually dug yourself.” Gabriel pulled himself upright then, wrung his hands together in a passable imitation of a very anxious angel and affected a ridiculous, high-pitched voice. “’ _Oh, human,_ ’” he simpered. “ _’ I miss him so much! Why has he been taken away from me like that? That poor, poor demon, he didn’t deserve it’._ ”

Aziraphale flushed and ground his jaw, whilst Gabriel threw his head back and laughed.

“Oh, Aziraphale you really should have heard yourself! And that, well, that just made it all the more fun then, didn’t it? Meant that I could really, _really_ enjoy keeping him from you like I was. And then bringing him back to London, _hiding him down here_ , well, that was even more hilarious, you know? There you were hardly a hop, skip and a jump from where he was, moping around and _crying_ over a supposedly dead demon! Calling him your _friend_ … missing him _dreadfully_ …” Gabriel leaned in then, his eyes alight, twisted, ethereal joy fizzing around his head like a perverted halo. “But it’s even better than that, isn’t it???? Even better, because – oh, we need a dramatic drum roll here, for sure – even better because you lurve him, don’t you? Lurve him lots and lots and lots! With all of your stupid, pathetic angel heart! Oh, I laughed and laughed when I worked that one out! What a precious gift! And could anything sum you up better than that? The stupid angel who gave away his flaming sword, let the serpent tempt the first humans – and then fell in love with a demon. Is there a worse angel than you?”

Aziraphale could feel himself flushing from the top of his head right down his neck and underneath his bowtie, but he squared his shoulders and held Gabriel’s unsettling eyes. “You can say what you want about me, think what you like, but I will never apologise for loving Crowley.”

Gabriel’s mirth vanished in a blink. “You’re pathetic,” he hissed, “even more pathetic than him, which really is saying something.” The violet eyes narrowed then, and something in his expression turned Aziraphale’s stomach in dread. “Anyway. Getting back to it. So, I’d found out that you loved him… and following on from that, what would be more fun than _him_ loving _me_? Loving me and hating you! Which he does, by the way, but yeah, I guess you’ve noticed that by now?”

Cold sweat bloomed along Aziraphale’s spine as the memories of Crowley’s petrified face unfurled inside him. “You’ve told him I’m a demon. You’ve told him that I’m the demon who tortured him.”

Leaning forward, lips curled into a sneer that showed all his teeth, Gabriel went for the kill. “Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I? And it worked _beautifully_. He’s terrified of you now, you know that? Fucking terrified. I sit there at night and watch him thrash and moan and sweat in fear of you coming back for him. I know that I could give him sweeter dreams, but where in Heaven is the fun in that? No – I make them _worse_ , I give him lots of lovely extra details to dwell over, I give him pain and horror, I draw them out, make them chase him into his waking hours…” he sat up again, bright, grinning, “Honestly, Aziraphale, this has been the best time I have ever had in all of my existence! Demons have nothing on me and the fun I’ve had with him.

“And it just gets better and better! You know that? He’s a dream to work with. So naïve, so gullible.” He stopped for a moment, pondered, whilst Aziraphale swallowed the bile in his throat. “I think he knows, though, you know? Really, what he is. I think he knows how low he comes on the natural order of everything, he’s always been so perfectly happy to think the absolute worst of himself that I’ve barely had to do anything. You should have seen his tragic little face when I told him his tragic little story, his fall from heavenly Grace. He cried, you know Aziraphale, told me he’d known, had always been able to tell that there was something wrong with him. I comforted him, of course, told him that I could overlook how wrong he was, how stateless, told him I’d stay with him no matter how abhorrent he was – the pathetic bastard was actually grateful.”

Gabriel laughed and Aziraphale swayed a little where he stood. Poor Crowley… oh, poor, sweet Crowley.

And still Gabriel went on. “I’ve waited so long! Ever since I moved him to London, I knew you’d run into him at some point. All I’ve had to do is sit and wait and bide my time before the show started and – wow – was it worth it! Again, far better than I’d hoped with all this pining and mooning… I’d always known you’d be pissed about this, the way I’ve played with him, but this? This righteous anger, the longing stares out of the window, oh, this really couldn’t be any better!” He stopped then, cocked his head to one side and considered. “Well, actually, it could be, but there’s time for that yet, isn’t there?”

“But _why_?” it was all Aziraphale could think.

“Why?” Gabriel looked astounded, completely stunned, his violet eyes were wide, his expression contemptuous. “Aziraphale, you stupid angel, have you listened to a single word I have said?”

Aziraphale flushed, but held Gabriel’s stare, “Why?” he repeated.

Gabriel’s eyes shot up to Aziraphale then, cold and hard, all pretence of humour gone, every inch the terrifying Archangel, “To destroy him of course. To destroy him and, by default, _you_.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened at the sudden revulsion painted right through Gabriel’s expression and he couldn’t help the backwards step he took, “ _Destroy us?_ ”

Gabriel rose from his chair and slunk forward. “Yes, of course! Destroy you both – why does that surprise you? You and your demonic little sidekick over there ruined everything for me. Do you understand that? _Everything_!”

“But there didn’t have to be a war,” Aziraphale maintained, “We could have-”

“Yes, there did!” a windowpane at the far side of the room cracked across the corner with Gabriel’s yell. “Yes, there did, because it was _written_ , and it was my chance! I could have ruled over Heaven and Hell, I could have been the one who finally punished Lucifer and his deranged gang for their misdeeds-”

“They _were_ punished!” Aziraphale’s voice was rising in competition. “They _Fell_!”

“But they should have been destroyed! All of them! Instantly! They were wrong and they should have been destroyed and instead Lucifer was gifted his own fucking _Kingdom_!”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, “You’re jealous!”

“He was always Mother’s favourite!”

“You wanted a war because you were jealous! You’ve done this to Crowley, because you are still jealous!”

“It was written!” Gabriel spat. “Six thousand years and then it would end in fire and flame. I waited. I bided my time. Mother was silent, I took my opportunity, it was _my time_ , and then _you_! And _him_!” he gestured manically out of the window. “You ruined it all. You ruined the day, but then your meddling and the fuss it caused reached Her and suddenly she wasn’t so hands-off anymore. Suddenly the ineffable plan was a lot more _effable_ and full of, ‘do this’, and ‘don’t do that’, and ‘there will not be a war’… and you stole my opportunity!”

Aziraphale took a step back and shook his head. “No. No I did not. It wasn’t your opportunity; it was never the Almighty’s will!”

“It was _my_ will!” Gabriel snarled. “And if I’m not going to touch you, not going to destroy you and make you pay with your very life, then I will make you suffer, _both of you_. I will own him, and I will control him, and I will continue to make him terrified of his own fucking shadow! I will taunt him and torment him and he’s so fucking pathetic he’ll just keep crawling back for more and you will have to watch and _watch_ , because you think I only taught him to _banish_ you? No, he can _destroy_ you as well, and then that will destroy him, and I will happily be free of the pair of you!”

Horror was coursing through Aziraphale’s veins, “No,” he shook his head, “Gabriel, no. Let him, go, please, let him go.”

Gabriel laughed then, wild and unhinged, “Let him go? Are you kidding me here? I’ve never had this much fucking fun! And now this,” he gestured between the two of them, “Well, this is even better. Even better, because _now you know_. Now you know that I am slowly, slowly, destroying him from the inside out. Not even that, not really. He’s actually destroying _himself_ , eating away at himself until he’ll be begging me to end it all for him. And the best thing, the _absolute best thing_ of all of this, is that _none of this would have happened if you’d found him first_!” Aziraphale blanched and put a hand out to steady himself against the wall as Gabriel’s laugh became louder, wilder, throwing his head back as he pealed at the skies. “And there it is! That’s why I’ve done it, to see _that_ look on your face! For you to know that you are beaten, and he is done for, and I am better than you both!”

“Leave him alone,” Aziraphale was shaking, horror and terror and despair and _anger_ ravaging through his soul, but Gabriel just laughed again.

“Ooh. An avenging angel!” he waved his fingers in the air, his eyebrows up in his hairline. “I always wondered what it would take to get you up and motivated towards something other than food.”

Aziraphale stepped forward, the horror, terror and despair finding themselves swamped by the anger. “Leave him alone.”

Gabriel stopped still, like a predator in the grass. “Are you threatening me, sunshine?” His voice was low, a warning. “ _Me?_ Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

Eyes cold, Aziraphale faced him down. “You can’t touch me, remember. You can’t touch _him_.”

There was a pause as Gabriel considered. “Hmmm, don’t get me wrong here, Aziraphale. This is a choice I am making here, _a choice_. And the more I think about it, the more I wonder whether some things, some _pleasures_ , are actually just worth the risk,” he spread his hands, “So… Yeah, actually, I think I _can_. Touch you, that is. Destroy you. Both of you. Whenever I want.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “You walk away from him now and I won’t destroy _you_. You continue hurting him like this and I promise you – I will be that avenging angel you are so keen to see.”

Like an overdressed Christmas tree, Gabriel lit up, “Ooooh! You _are_ threatening me! Haha! Sandalphon will not believe this, are you willing to repeat that if I get him on speakerphone?”

Aziraphale did not smile, he did not move. His anger shone through him, lighting him from within. He simply held Gabriel’s stare, his voice quiet and cold, “Leave. Him. Alone.”

He did not see Gabriel move. One moment they had been staring at each other – a celestial standoff – the next he was up against the wall, an iron-clad hand around his throat, stealing his words, a glass phial of spitting flames right up in his face. “You do not threaten _me_ ,” Gabriel hissed, the hellfire reflecting in his violet eyes. “You are not worthy to be ground to dust under the heel of my shoe. I am keeping you alive right now simply because it’s so much more fun to see your pain, it’s like the gift that keeps on giving. Piss me off again, though, and we’ll be having that angel barbecue after all. With you the guest of honour. Capiche?” He waved the delicate little phial under Aziraphale’s nose, his smile creeping back as he recognised the paralysing terror in the angel’s expression. “Yeah,” he grunted, his fingers tightening around Aziraphale’s neck, “I thought so. And do yourself a favour – keep the Hell away from my _property_ , or he’ll be getting a taste of the holy water I have set aside for _him_. You understand me?”

There was the slightest frisson of ethereal power as Gabriel, not waiting for Aziraphale to gasp out his answer, vanished, but like a bad villain in a nineteen fifties melodrama, his laughter remained, echoing around the flat.

Aziraphale hit the floor with a solid thump and curled his legs into his chest, desperately trying to stop from himself from shaking apart.


	13. You Know How Freaky I Find Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... I am nervous about posting this part, but this is what happens, and so it needs to... happen. 
> 
> It's not a jolly chapter though - beware. I would say it is the bleakest chapter in the entire story. 
> 
> Think of this part as the 'Empire Strikes Back' moment; our heroes have to reach rock bottom before they can start scrambling their way out of the mire and that is where they are now. Just as I promised that Aziraphale wouldn't be an idiot all the way through, I am also promising that this does get better and they will get their happy ending, maybe not instantly, but it is absolutely coming.
> 
> Look after yourself though and heed the tags and the warning. 
> 
> WARNINGS: EXTREMELY dubious consent in a sexual situation, elements of domestic abuse, controlling & coercive behaviour.
> 
> Also, those of you familiar with the script for the 1992 movie-that-never-was, you might spot THAT infamous line, but, this time, not spoken by Crowley...

~~**~~

One of the strangest things about ethereal – or occult – beings on Earth is the effect they have on the things around them. There are many stories, in the Bible and beyond, of humans feeling uneasy and discomfited in the presence of even the most human-adjacent angels, whilst many people report that they can sense the creeping presence of a demon when it manifests in their proximity. Aziraphale and Crowley had certainly come across both of these phenomena through the ages and both had become adept at lessening the negative impact they had on the humans they interacted with. Less well documented, however, is the effect that said beings have on inanimate objects – objects that seem to lose their inanimation, or at the very least their lack of sentience – following lengthy exposure to supernatural beings. Or, more specifically, lengthy and _close_ exposure to supernatural beings.

Crowley’s Bentley, currently sitting in pampered storage in a plush Kensington ‘car hotel’, would be the perfect example of this. Aziraphale’s bookshop another. The, sadly deceased, plants one more. And a far more recent and less obvious addition to the ranks of supernaturally sentient, would be the L-shaped leather couch in Crowley’s flat. Five years of close contact with an, often lonely, occult being had awoken its sentience, had made it far more aware than any other couch in existence. Ever.

It knew that its owner was a demon, a fact that even said owner was currently oblivious to, and it knew that it liked its owner. Loved him even. Crowley was kind to her, gentle, spoke to her on long nights when he just seemed to need to hear a voice in his silent flat. Despite having a large and comfortable bed, he also often slept on her, sprawling his long limbs in manners unlike any of the humans Sofa had seen when she’d been sitting in the showroom for those long weeks before purchase. He’d often wake up shouting, sometimes sweating and writhing, and Sofa tried her best to comfort him then, but it was hard, having no voice and no limbs to work with.

So, she loved her owner, despite knowing he was a demon, a demon called Crowley actually, which was odd, as no one ever called him that. Not that she met many others. There had been that strangely awkward but gentle angel who had called around the other week. Sofa had felt quite positive about him until he had upset her Crowley so badly that he’d fitfully tossed and turned on her all evening, never really settling into sleep at all. After that, she was far less keen. And then there was the other angel, the one Crowley called ‘Adam’, even though he knew, even though they both knew, that he was really called Gabriel. But Gabriel never called her demon, Crowley. No, he called him ‘Tom’, which was stupid because that absolutely wasn’t his name. But then, when did Gabriel ever do anything that wasn’t stupid? There was nothing at all about that angel that Sofa could bring herself to like.

It had been a long and difficult morning so far and Crowley had slept little in the past few days, never settling and alternating between angry, confused and absolutely terrified. Sofa was adept at feeling his emotions and they chafed her, rubbing up against her newly discovered sentience, making her anxious and desperate to offer him some comfort although she’d never found a successful method of doing so. He’d paced to the windows and back so many times she was beginning to wonder if he was wearing away the wooden floor, and she felt his nervousness peak as, like the obnoxious prick he was, Gabriel/Adam materialised right into the middle of their living area.

“Well?” Crowley spoke the words that she wanted to. “What happened?”

Gabriel looked up, his incredibly irritating face scrumpling into an expression of patronising appeasement. “I handled it. Of course I handled it. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Whatever answer Crowley had been expecting, that was obviously not it. He stepped forward, his boots echoing on the wooden floor and tried again. “But what _happened_?”

“I sorted it. As I said I would. As you asked me to.”

This time Crowley rolled his eyes, “But what _happened_? What did you do to Alex?

Gabriel stiffened, and Sofa found her own stitching prickling in response. “Alex?” the tone was icy. “How many times do I have to tell you? He is _not_ a man called Alex, he is a _demon_ called Aziraphale, and he’s already tried to destroy you once, and that was before you invited him in to your own damn flat and cooked him food!”

Sofa startled at that. Alex. That was the name of the gentle angel that Crowley had invited around the other week. He was not a demon, not like Crowley, why would Gabriel say that?

Crowley, meanwhile, paced up and down, a hand raking through his hair, anxiety rippling off him in sharp little eddies. “And I’ve told you, I’m _sorry_ about that, I didn’t realise. I was just fed up of being on my own that’s all.” He stopped, shrugged uneasily Gabriel’s way, “And he’d helped me with those flowers and so-”

Gabriel whirled around from where he’d been inspecting the cut of his jacket in the reflection of the darkened flat screen, his violet eyes flashing in anger. “I know. You’ve told me all of that. And I’ve told you what I think of your stupidity, never mind what you were thinking of, getting yourself involved with a human when you have got _me_.”

Sofa felt the guilt then, hot and warranted as Crowley tried to fight it back. “And I’ve told you it was nothing like that. He was a friend, that’s all. You have nothing to worry about.”

Gabriel’s face crunched into comical perplexion. “Worried? Why the fuck would I be worried?”

Crowley’s eyes, even from behind his shades, visibly narrowed.

“You are not human, though, remember?” Gabriel spat. “You are not supposed to have _friends_.”

Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned his thigh against Sofa’s side, she pushed back a little in sympathy. “Well, he’d helped me out, that’s all, and I was paying him back.”

“He should never have helped you out.” Gabriel was back to admiring himself in the TV screen and Sofa wanted to tell him that she thought he looked like a complete and utter knob.

“But I was stuck!” She hated that Crowley felt the need to try and justify himself like this. “I would never have got the flowers ready for the wedding and-”

“No.” Gabriel didn’t shout but there was something in his voice which stole Crowley’s air and snatched the words from his voice. He turned from his preening, a hand held up in the air, the most sanctimonious expression on his face that Sofa had ever seen – and she and Crowley had watched a lot of _Frasier_. “Tom, this has got to stop, do you hear me? It has to stop, all of it, now.”

Sofa felt the shock of anxiety pulse out of Crowley. “Stop? Stop what? I’m the one who asked you here to sort this out. I’ve told you I’m not meeting him anymore, that I hadn’t realised what he was. It’s already stopped!”

“No…” sanctimonious had slipped quickly into patronising. “Not your ridiculous dalliance with the demon Aziraphale, I know that’s stopped, I mean all this stupid pratting about and pretending you’re a human when you’re not.”

Beat.

“What?”

Gabriel sighed and gestured down to his feet. “This shop, the flowers, consuming gross matter, drinking… You’re not a _human_ , Tom, and I’ve indulged you too much these last few years, but now it just needs to stop, do you understand me? It needs to stop – and it needs to stop now.”

Sofa could taste Crowley’s confusion in the air. “And _what_? So what does that mean?” he paused, suddenly lit with hope, “You’re taking me back to Heaven? You’ve finally okayed it? I can get in?”

Gabriel, the dick that he was, looked like he’d sucked on a gross-matter-lemon. “No! Of course not. Of course you can’t get in, you’re not an angel anymore.”

Sofa pushed harder against Crowley’s leg as she felt the minute tremors. “But you said that you would fix it.”

“And I am trying, but nobody wants you in there anymore! What do you expect me to do? I can’t work bloody miracles, you know.”

“But you can!” Crowley left her side and took a step closer to Gabriel. “You are the Archangel Gabriel, for fuck’s sake! Working miracles is precisely what you _do_ do!”

Gabriel’s lemon face was back. “Not with this, not with _you_. You’re above and beyond anything we’ve ever had to deal with – you’re not an angel anymore!”

“So you keep reminding me,” Crowley’s voice was low. “And yet I’m not a human either.”

“Of course.”

“So, what the fuck am I then? A _demon_?” Crowley whipped his glasses off, staring at Gabriel with eyes which were fully yellow.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. And put those back on. You know how freaky I find them.”

Crowley shoved the glasses back into place, his jaw tense. “So what am I, then?” he hissed and Gabriel shrugged.

“I don’t know. I’ve told you that.”

“And where am I supposed to live?”

Rolling his eyes again, Gabriel flung his arms wide, “Here, on Earth, like I told you, like I’ve set you up to in this nice flat with its material objects and its flat screen and its bed and its shower!”

“But I’m not supposed to do anything? I’m supposed to what? Sit here on my fucking arse and wait for you to pop in whenever you get around to it?” Crowley took another step in and Sofa could feel his painful anger. “ _Four days ago_ I messaged to say that I needed you! Four days ago! To tell you that the motherfucking demon who’s been after my blood for all these years had been in my _shop_ spouting shit about him being an _angel_ and you being a _danger_ and trying to get me to _leave_ with him and yet it takes you _four days_ to get down here? _Four days_?”

Gabriel wrinkled his nose, “I was busy!”  
  
“I was in danger!”

Shaking his head and brushing lint off his jacket, Gabriel screwed up his face. “You’re always in danger, and yet you handled it! And how did you handle it? By doing what I had damn well told you to do if that bastard ever showed his face, and you did it and you were safe. There was no rush!”

Crowley folded his arms, “Well, maybe I would have liked you to rush.”

“I didn’t see the need.”

“Maybe you should have seen the need.”

Sofa could tell the exact moment when Gabriel lost his temper. “What is wrong with you?” he spat. “Do I have to remind you _again_ what risks I take keeping you here like this? Protecting you? Do I have to recap on the fact that Heaven wants you extinguishing? Wants you snuffing out – abomination that you are? Do I have to point out all the things I have done for you, given you, over the years? Do I have to tell you again every risk I take _every time_ I come down here and see you and risk Heaven finding out what I have been doing letting you stay alive like this? Do I need to do that, you fucking ungrateful imbecile? Do I?!”

Sofa did not like the way that Gabriel’s eyes were flashing, or the static that was suddenly filling the room. It made her staples ache and she saw Crowley taking a step back himself, his arms coming to up cross over his chest, “Why do you do it then?” he asked, voice quiet and taut.

There was a pause, barely a pause, but still, Sofa heard it, and then she felt Gabriel hauling all that static back under control. “Because I love you.”

Crowley shook his head, “Do you?”

“Why would you even ask? What do you think I would do all that for if I didn’t?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you listen to what that demon told you? Did you believe his lies? Is that what this is? Should I have destroyed him rather than just chased him off ? Make sure that he doesn’t twist your mind into believing his lies? Make sure that he doesn’t turn you against me?” 

Crowley lifted his head, “You didn’t destroy him?”

“Why does that interest you?”

Sofa felt the lie in the shrug, she hoped that Gabriel didn’t. “It doesn’t.”

Gabriel’s anger was back, “So, what is this then? Is this you wanting to go out into the big wide world on your own? You reckon you don’t need me anymore, do you?”

“I never said that.”

It wasn’t a direct rebuttal, and Gabriel seemed to notice that, too. “Oh, you want to try being a proper human, then? Living without my support, without my money, without me providing you with this flat and everything in at and a stupid fucking flower shop that you can spend all day playing around in like it was the Garden of fucking Eden or something?”

Sofa watched Crowley’s miserable flush and hated Gabriel even more.

“No.”

“You think you can manage on your own, do you? Without me. Without me to come running to the second you find out that a big nasty demon is standing there in front of you? Well, let me tell you, there’s a whole fucking _Hell_ of them down there, you know. All of whom would love to try and finish off the job Aziraphale started on you. How much time do you think they would need? Any of them? How long do you think it would take them to make you into a proper demon? Finish the transformation? Is that what you want, then? You _want_ them to blacken you? Make you one of them? Open the door to all those nice little dinner parties in Hell with _Alex_ and all his friends? Is that what you fucking want?!”

“No!”

“Well shut the fuck up then and stop telling me what I should be doing!” the static was back. “Start towing the damn line and stop being such a pain in the ass! You need to stay in this building, I have warded it, you are safe here, unless you’re so monumentally stupid as to find the demon who wants to destroy you and ask him in for fucking dinner!”

“I didn’t know!”

“Because you’re stupid! You’re so stupid you don’t deserve to live!”

“I’m fucking lonely here!”

Gabriel widened his eyes, an exaggerated cartoon character. “Lonely? Lonely!” his eyes flashed. “You were a fucking _angel_ once! Angels do not get lonely! Find some of that back-bone will you? Grow a set of fucking balls! I am trying to keep you alive and you are weeping on about being lonely!”

Crowley stepped in and Sofa wished that she could be the one he was turning to for comfort. “Just tell me that this isn’t going to be forever,” he whispered, the pain obvious in every syllable.

Deflating, Gabriel sighed. “It isn’t going to be forever.”

Crowley lifted his head, stared at him, “Then how long _is_ it going to be for?”

“I don’t. Fucking. Know.”

Silence wove around the room and Sofa wished she could push herself up against Crowley’s legs, wished there was something she could do for him.

Gabriel sighed again and took a step in so that they were almost toe to toe. He reached up and threaded his fingers into the back of Crowley’s cropped hair. “You need to stay in. I love you. I cannot lose you. You need to stay in. I’ll come and see you as much as I can.”

Beat.

“What about the shop?”

Another burst of static, enough to tighten Sofa’s stitches. “Fuck the shop. I cannot lose you, come here.”

The hand tightened, pulling Crowley down, but Sofa could tell that he was resisting. “Gabriel…”

“Shush now. Come on, I know you want this,” he tugged again, and again Crowley resisted him. “You really gonna make me come all this way and get nothing for it?” his voice was tight, wheedling, but sharp enough that Sofa knew it could slice, and Crowley let himself be pulled closer, let himself be kissed, rough and messy and the charge in the room changed, far less electric, far more cloying. If Sofa had had a stomach, it would have dropped into her wooden feet by now.

“There look,” Gabriel pulled back slightly, but kept his tight grip in the back of Crowley’s hair. “That’s okay, isn’t it? You like this. You always like this.” There was a shiver of something celestial and suddenly, Crowley was completely naked. “There now, that’s better isn’t it?”

“Gabriel…” there was a tightness in Crowley’s voice, a warning, but Gabriel just smiled around it.

“Shush. Don’t be silly. Come here, _you like this_.”

Sofa shuddered in hatred as Gabriel pulled Crowley in again, kissing him with wide, swallowing motions, running another hand over his back and arse, squeezing the flesh hard enough to make Crowley push away from his hand, right into his groin instead.

Gabriel chuckled at the move. “There you go now,” the layers of lust in his voice pulled at Sofa’s staples. “There’s that enthusiasm we’re missing.” His free hand ran around over Crowley’s hip onto his front, fingers wrapping around a decidedly uninterested cock. He looked down and frowned. “Hey, don’t worry about that. I can help out if you’re struggling,” another shiver of a miracle and Crowley whimpered as he was suddenly erect, Gabriel’s fingers working him hard, Sofa almost vibrating in rage as Gabriel kissed him again, walking him backwards to the windows, pumping him as they moved, that hand tight in his hair still.

“Turn around,” he hissed as Crowley’s back hit the double-glazing and he spun him around, hand in his hair adjusting to hold him still, pressed up against the glass.

“Hey!” Sofa could see Crowley’s eyes flicking to the street below, the swanky flats opposite, even as Gabriel pushed harder, flattening his swollen cock against the window.

“Shush,” he hissed, opening the fly of his trousers, “It’s fine.”

Crowley did not seem at all convinced and shifted his palms to lie flat against the glass, trying to lever himself away. “Gabriel, what the fuck are you doing? There are _people_ down there!”

“It’s alright,” Gabriel crowded in behind him, tugging his own erection out into the midday sun. “No one can see, I’m shielding us. I just need you right now. Been worried about you. So, so worried about you.”

Still Crowley pushed back. “Bedroom then,” he hissed, even as Gabriel kicked his feet apart. “Not here, not like this. We- Ah!”

His words were stolen as Gabriel shoved up inside him, bottoming out in one thrust, and Sofa seethed at the way that Crowley’s face crumpled in pain.

“That’s it, see? Better?” Gabriel was pistoning in and out, his hips, still in his over-tailored trousers pumping away. He shifted his grip, letting go of Crowley’s hair and, instead, wrapping one arm around a tense stomach, the other back on Crowley’s cock, stroking it in time with his frantic pounding. “You’re gonna come, hey? You gonna show all these people who you belong to?”

“Fuck!” Crowley spat. “You said they couldn’t see! Get us the fuck away from here, will you?” his palms were still on the window and he pushed back, Sofa could see that he was shoving with everything he had to get himself away from the window.

“Pack it in!” Gabriel hissed, never once breaking his rhythm. “You know you love it. You don’t want to see them? Just fucking close your eyes and keep still!”

But Crowley pushed again, squirming desperately to get out from Gabriel’s impalement. “Gabriel!”

“For fuck’s sake…” Gabriel hissed and then, with the shiver of a miracle, the window in front of them, the whole window, from one side to the other, simply dropped out of existence.

Crowley yelped in terror as he lurched forward, his glasses falling into the street below, but Gabriel’s arm was tight around him. “It’s okay,” he whispered, hauling him back onto his cock, “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Sofa, silently seething behind them, saw the moment that Crowley gave in. Watched, her non-existent heart breaking, as his arms just fell, limp, to his sides. She saw his head drop back onto Gabriel’s shoulders, and his eyes, naked as the rest of him, slide shut.

“There you go,” Gabriel whispered, “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Crowley didn’t reply, he just held himself there, let Gabriel use him, let Gabriel stroke him, until the Archangel was sweating, his face creased in pleasure, his hand almost blurred on Crowley’s cock. “Come,” his hissed, the tendons in his neck straining, “Come, damn you!”

Sofa couldn’t miss the layers of suggestion in that order and, it seemed, neither could Crowley. His spine arched backwards, his hips pushed out and with his eyes pressed shut and his face creased in anguish, he came, shooting jets of release out into the warm air, Gabriel following straight after, gritting his teeth and grunting as he emptied into his condom, gripping Crowley so tightly around his midriff that the skin washed white.

They stood together, Gabriel breathing hard, until he stepped backwards, drawing them both away from the edge and putting the window back in place. They separated, Gabriel’s nose turning at the condom as he slid it off his skin, vanishing it in a moment and zipping himself back together. “So,” he turned brightly to Crowley, shit-eating smile in place, “That was good, yeah? I was thinking-”

He stopped dead, violet eyes blinking in surprise as Crowley stepped up to him, hands fisting in his jacket, and shoved him, hard, against the wall, shaking the TV in its bracket. “Don’t,” he hissed, tongue seeming a little longer, a little thinner than usual to Sofa, “you _ever_ do that to me again.”

Gabriel shoved back, propelling Crowley across the room with enough force for him to clatter into the opposite wall, thunking his head into the plaster and falling to the wooden floor, his naked limbs sprawled around him. Gabriel tugged his jacket down and smoothed away the wrinkles left by Crowley’s grip. “Same to you, sunshine,” he muttered coldly and promptly vanished.

Sofa watched as Crowley tugged his arms and legs back under his control, sitting up against the wall, head on his knees, long fingers wrapped around his slender ankles and sliding into silent stillness.

He stayed there for a while, long enough for her to really start to worry and then he lifted his head, expression blank, and pulled himself up to standing once more. He stopped then, warily eyeing the window as he stood there, stark naked, before shaking his head and looking around the room. “Where did that bastard vanish my clothes to?” he hissed – to himself? To Sofa? But she couldn’t respond, even if she did have an answer for him.

It seemed that the question was rhetorical anyway, as he shuffled off without waiting for an answer. Sofa heard him go into the bedroom, then the attached en-suite as the shower burst into life. He was gone about ten minutes, returning in a loose pair of shorts and a black t-shirt, tugging the duvet off the bed behind him. She sighed with relief as he, finally, climbed on top of her and she could cradle him the best she could, trying to soothe him, settle him, in anyway that might help. He stretched out his long legs and arranged the duvet over them both, before snapping on the TV and flicking around until he found an old episode of _Soap_ playing.

They watched for a few minutes, him and Sofa, and she felt the tension slowly, slowly starting to seep out of his muscles. He reached under one of her cushions then, rooted about until he found his prize, the most important job she’d ever been asked to do by him. Pulling a fat, already opened, envelope out into the room, Crowley sighed and slid out the neatly folded sheets, starting at the beginning once more and re-reading the words of a demon, who was, for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down, pretending to be an angel.

__

Across the road from Sofa and her demon, in a recently inhabited flat, sat an armchair, also possessing far more in the way of sentience than an armchair should, this time due entirely to the two hundred odd years in which it had lived in an angel’s book shop. It couldn’t see out of the window and across the road from where it had been positioned, but it could see to where the angel had been standing, earlier that afternoon, looking out of the window himself. Armchair didn’t really understand what his angel had seen whilst he’d been standing there, cup of tea completely forgotten in his hand, but he felt that it hadn’t been good.

The angel hadn’t hung around to explain either, had just about vanished with the most dreadfully pale complexion, leaving Armchair to sit and look at the pile of smashed china, the spreading stain of tea on the floor, and wonder what on Earth was going on.

~~**~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well done for getting through that! 
> 
> Crowley is a survivor and he will survive this, too. This is the trough of despair, and whilst the next chapter is not going to be unicorns, rainbows and picnics, it's better than where they are now.
> 
> Go read some fluff - update on Sunday at the latest. <3


	14. The Only Kind-Hearted Demon in the Entirety of Creation

It was dark. The only sound that could be heard in Anathema’s gift shop was the ticking of the cuckoo clock out in the main selling area. In the back room, an angel and a witch were sitting on the floor, their backs against opposite walls, their legs laid out almost side by side; Aziraphale couldn’t help thinking of the time when he and Crowley had sat like this in the flower shop.

“There must be something we can do.” It had to have been the twentieth time Anathema had said that, at least.

Staring at the wall in front of him, Aziraphale shook his head. “What can we do? Gabriel has covered every exit. We try to fight him; he will destroy us with a blink of his eye. We run; he will find us. We hide; he will find us. He holds all the cards, my dear. And even if he didn’t, how would we persuade Crowley to cooperate? He’s terrified of me.” It wasn’t the first time he’d said all of that either, but every time he hoped he was wrong.

“But he has your letter,” the hopeless hope in Anathema’s voice was wearing. “Maybe he will read it. Maybe he will believe it.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He fixed Anathema with a look, “Would you?”

Anathema’s face said it all.

The clock ticked on.

“So…”

Aziraphale flicked his eyes Anathema’s way.

“What if we don’t wait for his cooperation, what if, well, what if we _insist_?”

Beat.

“Insist?”

Anathema nodded, her face set.

“You mean we abduct him?”

“If you want to call it that, yes.”

Aziraphale blew out a long breath, eyes drifting to the ceiling as he thought. “I don’t know, my dear… I mean, well, he does have _powers_. He could call up Hellfire. He could kill you, destroy me. I’m not so sure trying to snatch him would be such a good idea.”

Anathema leaned toward him, “But _does_ he still have his powers? I thought you said that Gabriel told you he didn’t? And anyway, you said that he was doing everything the human way when you were in his apartment.”

There was a long pause as Aziraphale considered that. “I don’t know,” he eventually conceded. “Gabriel said that his powers weren’t in evidence. And, yes, he was living like a human, but we know how much Gabriel has manipulated him. How much easier would his life be if Crowley didn’t even realise that he _had_ any powers? It would be just like him to keep that fact to himself… I don’t think we can risk it, my dear, I really don’t,” he told her softly.

Truth was though, Aziraphale did not think that he could risk it for _her._ For him, for Crowley, well, that was a different matter, wasn’t it? What were his choices anyway? Leave Crowley to Gabriel’s whims, let him treat him how he would, let him hurt him, belittle him and _rape_ him? Because Aziraphale was not blind, and he was not stupid enough to think that _that_ had been love.

Or, what? Kidnap him, bind him somehow, keep him hidden and cowed until he could persuade him that he wasn’t a threat, it was his beloved Adam? How was _that_ any better than what Gabriel was already doing?

But still – one thing was clear, he had to cut Anathema out of this crusade from now on in – tackling an Archangel was no job for a mortal. No matter how brave and resourceful that mortal might be.

A flash of fury leapt his way from the witch sitting opposite him. “This whole thing is abhorrent,” she whispered. “How is it happening? How can an Archangel behave like this? Isn’t he supposed to be inherently _good_?”

Aziraphale laughed, dry and sad, “Crowley has always maintained, always, that there is no good and evil, just beings, making choices.”

Anathema shook her head. “And what about God in all of this? I thought that Gabriel said She’d decreed that neither of you be touched?”

“I didn’t think you believed in God?”

Anathema raised her eyebrows at him, “You’d convinced me.”

Again, Aziraphale pondered her words. “I’m not sure that She _did_ say that, to be honest. Someone did, Gabriel said something like, ‘up high’ and ‘down below’, but it could have been Satan, or Beelzebub, Michael or the Metatron, he never actually specified it _was_ the Almighty.”

Shaking her head, Anathema fixed him with her shrewd eyes. “But She’s just happy to sit there, is She? And let her Archangels behave like this? Let Crowley be treated this way? How can She think this is okay for him?”

Aziraphale shrugged, “He Fell, didn’t he? She’s already washed her hands of him. I’m not sure She’s even _aware_ of him anymore, but no, you are right, he does not deserve this – not at all.” 

_1627, Bamburg_

_The night was dark and frosted, and it leant an eerie echo to the shouts that Aziraphale could hear as he crept, as stealthily as possible, through the sleeping forest. Crowley hadn’t made their rendezvous, which was odd because it was Crowley who had asked for it. And whilst Aziraphale might have blustered and complained and outwardly agonised about meeting up with the demon, inside, he had been quietly thrilled that they had another chance to spend a few hours or so together._

_So, a no-show had been worrying. The empty town had been even more worrying. The hushed talk in the local inn of burnings had been enough to get Aziraphale out of his seat and back into the cold night._

_He could see them now, dark silhouettes against the orange glow of the huge bonfire and his heart faltered in his chest. He could hear the shouting, the jeering and the taunts and, throwing caution to the wind, shifted himself through space to save the final mile’s walk._

_It was a good job that he did, as it seemed that the night’s events were due to come to their conclusion. Aziraphale’s heart twisted as he caught sight of Crowley, slumped in a cage barely big enough for a dog, which was hitched on the back of an old hay cart and making its way through the baying crowd to the foot of the fire. His head was bowed and his hands bound in front of him and, even from where he stood, Aziraphale could feel the demon-binding runes that had been burnt into the leather of the cuffs – someone here knew what Crowley really was, which was odd, and decidedly worrying._

_Aziraphale used a lot of divine power that night. He couldn’t risk appearing in full angel-mode – it would hardly do to give the impression that Heaven sanctioned demons and evil-doing as a rule, but there was no way that he was prepared to stand around and watch as these brutes burnt his dearest friend into a horrifically painful discorporation. In the end, he fudged it a little, settling for frightening them all into fleeing, and changing their perceptions to believe that they’d fled to avoid lightning strikes whilst leaving their demon charge to burn alone._

_Terrifying vision accomplished, Aziraphale carefully blasted open the lock on the cage, before climbing in and pressing a hand to Crowley’s cheek. “My dear?” it was concerning just how cold it was. “What have you got yourself into this time?”_

_There was no answer from the demon in the cage, in fact, Aziraphale was starting to wonder exactly what the runes were taking from him, their presence was awful enough to have his own stomach turning at their proximity. With a disgusted snarl, he obliterated them from existence, his heart flipping yet again at the gasp that action wrought and the way that Crowley pitched, sickeningly, to one side, cracking his head against the bars of the cage._

_Lips pressed into a thin line, Aziraphale reached over and grabbed a wiry bicep, tugging gently until Crowley had slipped right out of the cage and into the back of the cart. The bravest of the villagers were starting to head back and so Aziraphale quickly created the vision of a burning body in the centre of the flames, hefted Crowley as gently as possible into his arms, and then, with a shake of his head at the stupidity of it all, took off into the sky._

_Three sizable miracles later, he was in a room at the inn. A room which was warm and dry, with a crackling fire and a large bed but, more importantly, guaranteed to be safe from any human interference for at least the next twenty-four hours. Crowley hadn’t shifted at all or made a single sound since Aziraphale had freed him, which was worrying, but he was still an immortal being, and Aziraphale hadn’t had even the slightest sniff of holy water, so, in theory, it should just be a matter of time._

_By the time he had stripped Crowley of his jacket and boots, however, his optimism had been significantly dented. Marks on his wrists betrayed the length of time he’d been wearing the rune-inscribed cuffs for, and it seemed that his captors had taken their opportunity to inflict as much damage as possible during that time. Aziraphale took a breath and let it out, slowly, rubbing a hand over his face as he psyched himself up to taking a full inventory of hurt. Poor Crowley – Aziraphale didn’t know the full story of what had gone on just yet, but he knew, absolutely knew, that nothing would have been done by this essentially kind-hearted demon to warrant any of_ this _._

_He started at the top and worked down. Sundry abrasions around his head, a deep cut across the back which looked consistent with being hit by something brutally hard. His hair was blood soaked, his eyes, when Aziraphale teased back the lids, fully yellow but flushed through with a wash of blood, veins visible for the first time Aziraphale had ever seen. There were bruises on both cheek bones, the left side of his jaw, his right temple and ringed around his neck. The right side of his clavicle was obviously broken, both shoulders were grossly dislocated which made it clear that they’d obviously hung his friend by his arms, Strappado, a favourite of these purist zealots._

_That was the worst of the injuries, thank the Almighty, there were sundry other bruises and lacerations, and a general griminess and smell about him that indicated at least a few days without access to any of his demonic miracles. Aziraphale could have cried for him._

_Steeling himself, he set about putting it all back to rights again, hoping beyond hope that Gabriel’s attention was elsewhere for the duration of this night. He used his miracles to strip Crowley back to his underwear and then to knit together torn skin, fuse broken bones and heal bruised flesh. The shoulders were far trickier, with nerves and ligaments needing healing as well as the re-siting of the joints themselves. Aziraphale worked through the night, whilst Crowley lay still and impassive; a blessing considering how much all the healing would have hurt him, despite Aziraphale’s care and caution, and, as the morning light started to peek through the rippled glass, Aziraphale traded the miracles for the human method of washing his friend clean._

_It was then that Crowley woke, snapping into awareness with a pained grunt and a hand shooting out to grab Aziraphale’s wrist. Aziraphale paused in his ministrations and calmly turned to meet Crowley’s eyes in the gloom of the room. “You’re quite alright, dear boy,” he offered gently, “You’re safe now.”_

_The exhale of relief was expected, as was the loosening of the death-grip around Aziraphale’s wrist, but the quiet, “Thank you,” wasn’t, nor was the instant retightening of his expression, the way his blood-shot eyes jumped back to Aziraphale’s face and the anxious, “What about the children?” he hissed out into the night._

_Aziraphale blinked at him, “Children?” he ran over the scene from the previous night in his head, sliding backwards and forwards over the assembled mob, trying to see if there had been any evidence of any children there at all._

_“The children!” Crowley snapped, trying to push himself up into a sitting position, and falling back with a pained groan._

_“Be careful!” Aziraphale admonished him. “Both of your shoulders were dislocated, I’ve put them back as they should be, but there is bound to be some lingering pain,” he didn’t even bother telling him that he’d removed as much pain as possible with another hopefully-under-the-radar miracle._

_Crowley closed his eyes, obviously remembering the exact moment that the dislocations happened. “The children,” he maintained, his voice quieter, “Are they alright?”_

_Playing for time, Aziraphale picked up his bowl of water and cloth and retreated to the table under the window, wondering if, in his concern for Crowley, he had missed something rather huge happening around that bonfire. “I’m afraid,” he returned to the bed and drew the blankets over his friend’s long limbs, “that you will have to be a little more explicit. I had only arrived in town just before our scheduled meeting time, and so I’m a little lost as to what exactly I walked into.”_

_Crowley stared at him, a rarely seen blink betraying his continued exhaustion, “We were due to meet tonight?”_

_“Yes, last night, dear boy.”_

_“It’s already next Tuesday?”_

_“It would appear so, yes.”_

_Another blink, “Then they could already be dead.”_

_Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed and risked laying a hand on top of Crowley’s, “Why don’t you explain, then, my dear, and I will see what I can find out for you.”_

_Crowley sighed, and took a moment, before, eyes closed, hand still underneath Aziraphale’s palm, he explained it all in a halting, painful sentences._

_Of course Aziraphale was aware of the witch-hunts which were rife in these parts of Europe, but had been unaware, naively it seemed, that the hysteria had spread to children. Crowley explained how he’d discovered the accusations which had been levelled at the seven children of a recently executed ‘witch’, how their ages ranged from just thirteen years old down to a three-year old, and that they were currently all housed in prison awaiting their sentencing, which was highly likely to be the same as that of their mother. Crowley hadn’t known what to do, had been unable to sit and watch as children were brutalised and murdered and so had come upon a plan to win their freedom. He revealed himself to the Prince-Bishop, demonstrated his powers and told them that he had possessed, not only the children’s mother, but the children themselves._

_It had been a sound plan, except for the fact that the Prince-Bishop was actually, unfortunately, well-versed in not only demon-lore, but also invocations and runes of binding as well. Before Crowley had known what was coming his way, his powers were locked, and the jailers were given a free reign in how they would like to punish him for the being he was. From what Aziraphale had seen, they had certainly relished the task presented to them._

_“So the children,” Crowley prodded, “the accused. Where are they? Was it worth it? Did they get away?” Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he could cope with so much pain and longing being focussed on him by those sad, blood-shot eyes._

_He did go out into the frigid town, however, and asked about as much as he dared before he too brought suspicion down on his own head. The news was good, though, as were the sweet buns he bought at the bakery on his way back to the inn, where he found a mound of blankets right in front of the fire and a demon sleeping away the trauma of the last few weeks. He sat in the chair right next to the blanket-mountain and coughed to try and rouse his counterpart and, when that didn’t happen, he leaned in a little and gently shook a bony shoulder, mindful of the injuries he had only just healed. “Crowley? Are you awake?”_

_A sleepy little snuffle was his answer before a tousled head, still with blood crusted through his hair, surfaced into the room, eyes wide and, to Aziraphale’s relief, not quite as blood-washed as before – proof that his resurfacing demonic powers were steadily working through his remaining aches and pains. He blinked up at Aziraphale and nodded, shaking his head again when a warm, spiced bun was offered his way before pushing himself up onto an elbow. “Well?” his voice was rough, which Aziraphale found strangely endearing._

_“Good news,” there was no way that Aziraphale was going to make him wait any longer than he needed to. “They swallowed your story completely. The children were released and have already left Bamburg to stay with a relative in Munich.”_

_Crowley closed his eyes again and lay back in the blankets. “It’s just as ridiculous in Munich as it is here,” he muttered. “I hope they will be alright. Maybe I’ll head that way and see.”_

_Aziraphale’s heart twisted again. Head to Munich? Was he insane? How was a being with eyes such as his, who created ‘feelings’ in humans as he did, was so obviously, to humans with such sensitivity, something out of ordinary, supposed to pass unnoticed in the fervour which was these German witch hunts?_

_And that wasn’t just all, was it? How was someone like Crowley so bothered by it all? How did he care so deeply for the humans who were supposed, literally, to be nothing to him? After everything he’d been through these past weeks, all the pain and the fear, how could he even think about putting himself out there again? How could he put the perceived needs of these barely known children above his own? How was he supposed to explain a painful discorporation at the hands of these humans? How would they punish him in Hell? How long would he have to wait to get another body?_

_“I’ll go,” the words left his mouth without thought and Crowley opened his eyes again to frown in confusion at him._

_“Angel, I-”_

_“You need to get away from this entire region,” Aziraphale filled in for him. “Go to Italy, my dear, things are quieter there.”_

_Crowley looked at him. “But those children. They’re-”_

_Aziraphale leaned in. “I’ll do it,” he repeated, softly. “Head south. Chase the sun. Find some good basking spots. I’ll stay here, make sure that they are set up and off all the lists they need to be off. I’ll even see how I can influence all of this hysteria dying down a bit. I’ll follow you in a month or so and we can meet up again, maybe have the drink we should have had last night.”_

_For a moment, it looked as if Crowley was going to argue with him, but then the fight seemed to wash right out of his frame and he closed his eyes again, pulling the blankets up over his head once more and vanishing from sight, a huffed, “If you insist,” the last words before he slid back into sleep._

_Aziraphale sat back in his chair and picked up the spiced bun, warming it back up again with a quick thought as he settled in for the rest of the day. Yes, he needed to get to Munich, and yes, Crowley needed to get out of this entire region as fast as he could – but not before he’d rested up, not before he’d recouped his strength. And until then, Aziraphale would not leave him. He would stay put and watch over him, a thank you, no doubt, from the children he saved. Saved by the most kind-hearted demon there was. The only kind-hearted demon in the entirety of creation._

__

Walking back to the bookshop in the early morning hours, Aziraphale had no idea what he would do about any of this, but there was one thought in his head – just like those cold and quiet days in Bamburg, he would not be leaving Crowley to suffer through this alone.

~~**~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up that I may miss my post on Wednesday this week as I have a bit of a week on. I shall do my best to catch up though :)


	15. There Was Always a Cost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi - life is hugely busy at the moment, and will be up until next Friday so my posting schedule is out the window until then. I have also read and treasured every one of your comments, and I will absolutely reply to each one of them next weekend. I hope you understand. Thanks for your continued support and positivity!
> 
> This section is very hot off the press, so I hope that it makes sense - and don't burn your fingers on it :)
> 
> It may appear that stupid-Aziraphale is back in town, but he's really just a desperate angel working with what he's got. Or what he hasn't got...
> 
> WARNING: brief mentions of past torture
> 
> _______________________________

Aziraphale did not open the bookshop. He did not sit in his favourite chair and read his best-beloved books. He did not prevaricate over which tea to have with which biscuits. He did not reorganise his wine rack by shade and then choose the middle one to sample. No. Instead, he sat at his desk, working through tome after tome on angelic lore, making notes in a leather-bound notebook and all the while trying not to imagine what was happening in the little flat above the flower shop on the other side of the river.

He worked for two days solid, fifty hours of research and planning and plotting and brainstorming until he had exhausted every book in the shop and was still no closer to figuring out a way he could fix everything, with _everything_ being the stumbling block. There _were_ solutions, there were ways around bits and pieces, there was even a way to fix almost everything – but there was always a cost, and sometimes that cost, that _risk,_ felt even more dangerous than the status quo, and that was not good enough for Aziraphale. No, that wasn’t it at all, it was not good enough for _Crowley_. Crowley had put up with so much, not just in these last five years, but in the six thousand before that, and goodness only knows what his life was like before the wall of Eden, the countless eons he spent as a discontented angel in Heaven. He deserved the best, he deserved a full fix – and Aziraphale was going to work every minute in existence until he gave him exactly that.

If he could…

But of course he could, there had to be a solution to this, there had to be, there just _had_ to be, he was an angel of considerable intelligence, he’d been told, he could sort this out.

The phone on the side rang again and Aziraphale cast it a guilty glance before turning his back and returning to the shelves to see if there was a book there that he’d missed. It was Anathema calling him, he was just about certain of that fact, but he wasn’t going to pick up for her. Now that Gabriel had revealed that he was aware of her, now that he’d shown himself for the cold, heartless and manipulative beast that he was, there was no way that Aziraphale was going to let Anathema be involved in any of this anymore. No way at all.

His fingers trailed over book spines, his mind running backwards and forwards over all the possibilities, all the pitfalls, but it seemed that, whichever way he considered it all, Gabriel still had them beaten. The fact that, even as Aziraphale was standing there, pondering their salvation, Gabriel, on the slightest whim that may possess him, could pour holy water on Crowley as he slept… well, it was a horror he could barely live with and the mere thought made him redouble his efforts to try and get them both out of this mess they were in.

As he saw them, the facts of the matter were these: having decided very early on that they could not fight Gabriel, run from him or hide from him, it seemed that there were four ways forward (if he was going to discount the other, very unfavourable, option).

One. They could somehow trick Gabriel into giving up his claim on Crowley and leaving the pair of them alone. Believing they were dead, totally destroyed, would be the best option, but, and here came the rub, there was nothing that Aziraphale could think of that would do the job well enough, _convincingly enough_ , for that to work. It wasn’t like they could just wade into the sea or paddle off in a canoe or something – this was the Archangel Gabriel they were dealing with, he would simply stand up in Heaven and order the observation team to find them again. It would probably take two days, tops, to achieve it.

So… they would need aides, someone, preferably from each side, who would help them with their subterfuge and play the part of murderer well enough to convince an Archangel. But who would they ask? There had never been an angel in Heaven that Aziraphale could call a friend, and Crowley had never spoken in positive terms of any other single other demon, _ever_. Where could they go with that?

Two. They could ask Adam to intervene, the real, Anti-Christ-Adam. But then, he’d not seen him at all in the five years since the Apocalypse hadn’t happened, and Anathema had reported that he was living a normal life, going to college in September, studying A-levels, planning for University… certainly not in the market for helping an angel and a demon avoid the karma that had been heading their way since the day they’d shaken hands in the bookshop as he’d lain in a crib in Tadfield.

Three. When considering powerful allies… Aziraphale had wondered whether it would be worth trying to speak to someone upstairs, tip them off as to what Gabriel was doing. But then he remembered how well that had gone down when he’d tried on the day his world had ended. No one had wanted to listen to him then, Aziraphale himself was discorporated and the bookshop, his precious bookshop, had burned. No. Why on Earth would he think that it would be any different this time?

So, two choices left, then. One which carried a cost, a real dangerous cost and, as such, he absolutely didn’t want to consider it… and the other, his option four. Option four was simply… well… it was simply assassinating Gabriel in cold blood. Sparing the very briefest of moments to consider how the world had changed for him to be sitting here calmly considering that as a preferential course of action, Aziraphale pulled his notebook in front of him and started to write a list of everything he would need in order to be able to execute it (and Gabriel) effectively.

‘1.’, he wrote, ‘Hellfire’, and there he fit the next stumbling block in his Machiavellian plot. Demons could call up Hellfire from the depths of Hell, the problem was that he was not a demon, and the only demon he could ask for such a thing… well, could _Crowley_? He’d seen him do it once before, a very long time ago, but that Crowley then, was a very different Crowley from this one now, this one who very much needed this rescue. _Could_ he still perform miracles? Or had whatever had happened to him to dump him in a field somewhere in the north of England with no idea as to who he was, stolen that from him? And if he _could_ still do miracles, could he do _this_ one? Could he call up Hellfire at Aziraphale’s request? Would he call up Hellfire at Aziraphale’s request? When he himself was still convinced that he was an angel, and that Aziraphale was a demon? How on Earth was Aziraphale supposed to go about sorting _that_ one out?

He put down his pen and rubbed at his face with both hands. What was he going to do?

_What was he going to do???_

~~**~~

The planning did not get any easier. He remained at his desk, completely unaware of how much time he’d spent there, going backwards and forwards over the same snatches of plans he had, desperately wishing for a flash of inspiration, knowing his time was running short and still being no closer to actually finding a was out of their mess. And worse, far worse, was the little voice at the back of his head that just kept on whispering, _Crowley needs you, Crowley needs you…_ as if he didn’t already know that! It wasn’t like he’d not already led a life of Crowley being there for him every single time he’d needed him to be.

Every time. How could he not be here for Crowley now?

_832 AD, Somewhere in the North Sea_

_Aziraphale hated boats. Well, not all boats, he’d had some fairly pleasant journeys along flat, warm rivers before, maybe it would be more accurate to say that he hated sea-faring boats. Especially when the waves seemed infernal. Especially when the boat seemed hardly strong enough to manage the infernal waves. Especially when the company was loud and boorish and drunk. And most especially when he’d been invited along against his will. “Oh bother it all,” he muttered once more, tugging hopefully at the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles. Not that he had any hope that they would give. Not that he knew what he would do if they did, roiling in the middle of the slate-grey seas as he was._

_This really was the most tiresome of situations. He’d done what Gabriel had asked him to, protected the monks who had been deemed the most pious and deserving. It had been cold and damp and miserable sitting around in a Monastery on the blustering English coast, just waiting for the attack he knew would arrive one day – he had been hoping that, when it was all over, he would have been able to head to a warm and toasty inn and spend a few days warming his cockles whilst awaiting further instruction. Instead, he found himself off to Scandinavia, with no idea as to when he would be able to get himself home again. Very tiresome. He didn’t even want to consider what would happen should they decide to finish him off…_

_A shout roused him from his moping, and he looked up, straining his neck to spy above the mountainous seas, his heart sinking at the tips of grey rock he could see peeking into existence with every sickening roll of the longboat. From the excited faces under beard and moustache and grime, he surmised that they were almost home; he wondered if that made his position more or less precarious._

_They landed on a rocky beach, Aziraphale hauled through the icy waters by his robes, and trekked through a thin belt of pine trees before coming out into a clearing. For a moment, Aziraphale could hardly believe his eyes, and tried hard to reconcile the murderous thieving villains he’d spent the last two weeks with, with these laughing, smiling men who kissed their wives and mothers and scooped their infants up into their arms._

_At last, they remembered him, and bringing with them the sacks of loot they had plundered from their most recent raids, they dragged him through the rows of wooden huts, past the smoking longhouses, right to the back of the settlement where a squat house of stone sat off in a space all of its own. The Jarl’s house, Aziraphale knew._

_He waited outside for a few minutes longer, his arm almost numb in the grip of his captor and then he was led inside, needing to blink a few times against the smoke and the gloom before he could see enough not to trip over his own feet._

_Abruptly, he was left alone with the Jarl, a dark figure slumped in a wooden throne at the end of the room. A dark figure in black clothing. With hair which flashed red in the flickering firelight. Whose face was hidden in shadow but had a posture that screamed of tedious indifference. Heart thudding in his chest in hope, Aziraphale stepped forward, “Crowley?” only to recoil as the figure snarled at him, rising to its full height of well over six feet, the broadness of its figure almost enough to block all light from the fire, the hatred in his green eyes surprising. Spitting at him in a dialect he couldn’t understand, the Jarl then shouted for his men to come. Come they did, dragging him back towards the shore where they deposited him in a wooden cage and left him to the mercy of the elements._

_It had been so incredibly cold. The wind, the rain, the sleet, the spray from the crashing waves. He lasted three nights, three nights longer than they had thought he would if the glares and the spitting were anything to go by. There was nothing he could do though, no way to make them less distrustful of him, no way to try and make things easier on his corporation, no way to blast it all to heck and just go home. Instead, he sat and shivered until even his body gave up on that, and then he felt himself sliding into sleep, dreading the smug welcoming he would get in Heaven – and wondering precisely how long they would make him wait for a new corporation._

____

_The first thing he noticed when he awoke was that he was warm, which was odd in itself as Heaven was never really known for its warmth. The second was the fires. Fires. Fires in Heaven? He could hear the flames cracking and popping. He could smell the smoke – and the sweet smell of burning flesh. His eyes popped open and there, silhouetted against the dancing tongues of fire was the unmistakable figure of Crowley and Aziraphale shot upright, terror raging through his veins: they wouldn’t? They couldn’t! Surely even Gabriel wouldn’t make him Fall just for succumbing to the cold?_

_“Hey,” Crowley’s voice was tense, rough, but still managing to inject a modicum of calm into him. “Angel, it’s me. You’re fine, you’re fine.”_

_Angel. Angel._

_His breath was coming hard and fast, the smoke grasping at his lungs. He didn’t need to breathe, he shut it all down and pulled at the thrashing tendrils of panic. “Wings…” he hissed, the trembling of his body making motor control difficult._

_“Wings?” the confusion was thick in Crowley’s tone. “Your wings are fine. I checked. You’re not hurt. Look,” Aziraphale was twisting frantically, over one shoulder and then the next, “don’t get them out in here, there’s ooof-”_

_Finally, Aziraphale remembered how to persuade his wings to manifest and with a soft whump, they fluttered out, flattening Crowley into the wooden walls at the same time._

_“Put them away! For fuck’s sake, angel! Put them away!”_

_“White…” the relief made him sag, made him realise just how tired he was, made his wings flutter away and his entire corporation slump back into the blankets and cushions he’d been wrapped within._

_“White,” Crowley repeated, crawling to his side. “You really thought they’d gone and done it, then?” He let out a bitter laugh. “What did you do this time to piss them off?”_

_Rolling on his side, Aziraphale took in the outline of a small wooden dwelling, the fire, the roasting animal flesh on the spit, and Crowley, always Crowley. “I thought it was you at first,” he saw Crowley’s forehead crease. “The Jarl. I thought it was you and that I was saved.”_

_The frown deepened. “No. That was Frode. But he sent word that he had you. I’d always worried you’d get yourself snatched like that.”_

_Aziraphale felt the heat of indignation wash through him. “What on earth is that supposed to mean? I am far from useless, you know.”_

_Crowley’s expression didn’t crack. “I found you almost frozen into discorporation in a cage on a beach in the middle of the night and the worst storm this side of Ostara,” he shook his head. “Where are your miracles?”_

_The indignation turned to shame and Aziraphale found he couldn’t quite hold Crowley’s eyes any longer. “Gabriel has removed them for a time.” He could hear the way that Crowley’s eyes widened at that._

_“Removed them? Why the fuck would he do that?”_

_Aziraphale sighed. “To make me more resourceful,” he flashed his eyes upwards. “It’s not a bad thing, Crowley! It’s good to be able to have other methods to get by, to not have to always rely on Heaven to get me out of a fix!”_

_“Other methods? What? Me?”_

_Aziraphale’s eyes dropped to the blankets once more. “I’m not sure that that’s what Gabriel was intending, no.”_

_“No,” Crowley pushed to his feet and went to the fire, pulling chunks of meat from the spit with his fingers and dropping them into a rough, wooden bowl. “I’m sure it wasn’t.”_

_“Thank yo-”_

_“Don’t,” Crowley whirled on him. “You really think you should be thanking me for just doing my demoinic duties? For telling those Marauders that if they came across a Monk with white hair and no sense of self-preservation then they weren’t to kill him, they were supposed to deliver him to me? Inciting the kidnap of an angel? You think you need to thank me for that?”_

_Silence stretched between them. Aziraphale could see the way that Crowley’s chest heaved and his nostrils flared, which was odd since he too didn’t need the breath he was taking. “No.” Crowley looked away. “But I suppose that I am grateful anyway. Sometimes I feel that Gabriel likes it when I get things wrong.”_

_Crowley didn’t answer, he just pushed the bowl of meat Aziraphale’s way and busied himself in pouring beer – and kept coming to the rescue, over and over and over again._

____

Which was why, this time, Aziraphale was going to be the one with the timely rescue.

~~**~~

He had known the exact moment he’d no longer been alone in his shop. The supernatural presence startled him out of his circular thoughts and he jumped in his seat, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as he slowly turned, convinced, absolutely convinced, that it would be Gabriel there, with all his sycophantic lackeys, come to finish him off for good.

But it wasn’t – it was Crowley.

For the briefest of moments, Aziraphale was lit up from the inside out like a celestial lighthouse. Crowley was here, Crowley had returned, Crowley suddenly knew exactly what was going on and now he would be able to put his agile mind to use and come up with a plan to save them both. Crowley – as was the way of the world – had come to save him at the last gasp yet again.

But then, a number of things struck him.

First was the sight of the water mister, pointing squarely his way, held in fingers that only barely trembled and his heart stuttered in his chest, the dreadful thought that Crowley had come to kill him thoroughly eclipsed by the terror of seeing him standing there actually holding the trigger of his own destruction. For a moment, Aziraphale could barely think around that horror before sense reasserted itself and his celestial registers told him, quite firmly, that what the demon was holding in his whitened fingers was nothing more than regular, totally harmless, tap water. Bluffing, the dear boy was bluffing. The fear was swept away in a wave of love and wonderment so strong that his heart stuttered once more, stuttered and swelled in his chest as he stared at the brave, foolhardy and oh, so desperately dear creature standing in front of him.

But then, secondly, everything else was consumed by the bone chilling terror which came next, hand in hand with the remembrance of Gabriel’s words, the threat he had made against Crowley should Aziraphale dare to meet him a single time more.

He shot to his feet, seeing Crowley startle and jerk back a step, his own eyes wide, the fear racing through him in scalding eddies. “You should not be here.”

Crowley’s lip curled, the mister remained pointed Aziraphale’s way and he took his step back in again, but Aziraphale could not miss the tightness of his features, the rigidity of his posture; it seemed he wasn’t the only terrified being in the room. “I shouldn’t?”

There was only the slightest tremor in that voice, oh, but his Crowley was always so very brave.

“Why is that, then? You don’t like visitors in your demonic den if they come to threaten you?” he jabbed the plant mister aggressively forward and Aziraphale had to force himself to draw back a little.

“You need to go,” he maintained. “What will Gabriel do to you if he finds out that you have been here? You have no idea what he’s capable of…”

That seemed to throw him. For the briefest fraction of a second, the steadfastness of the mister wavered before Crowley pulled himself together, obviously forcing himself back on track, forcing himself to ignore Aziraphale’s curveball. He realigned his sight over the mister, settled his feet a little wider and pushed on. “I have questions for you.”

The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth wanted to twitch into the edges of a smile. Questions. Of course he did, a Crowley in any guise would always have his questions, but still, Gabriel’s threats were so very, very real. “You have to go,” he maintained.

Again, Crowley seemed floored by this concern for his being, and again, he shook it off, instead, reaching into the inside pocket of his blazer and withdrawing a worn and rumpled-looking envelope. “What is this?” he asked, quietly.

Panic surged through Aziraphale yet again. No. No, no, no, no, no. He had written that damn letter hoping that it would make Crowley think, but that was before the threat from Gabriel. Now, well, Crowley questioning anything about Gabriel and their new life together was so incredible dangerous. Far too dangerous to allow, not until Aziraphale had worked out their exit strategy. He forced himself to calm, he forced himself to think, he locked all of his emotions away the very best he could, and he prepared himself to deliver the performance of a lifetime; after all, Gabriel himself had told him what a good fucking liar he was. He pushed out a shrug, casual, indifferent, (he felt) and even let the edge of a sneer curl his lip. “Nothing. A game. I was bored. I thought it might be fun to string you along a little, but now that Gabriel is involved,” he shook his head, “Well, no game is that much fun, you may as well give it back.”

He reached out for the letter, but Crowley was faster, jerking it back out of reach, his head tilting ever so slightly to one side as he considered Aziraphale through his glasses. For a moment, there was silence, and then, “You wrote ten pages, double-sided, in cursive script, _with a fountain pen_ , for a _game_?”

Aziraphale could hear the disbelief in his voice and he shrugged, “The key to a good temptation, dear boy, is in the detail.”

Crowley’s expression didn’t change.

They stared at each other, the clock in the corner ticking away through the silence.

“You said that you weren’t a demon. That you were an angel. And yet you were scared shitless by this,” he shook the mister, “I saw it in your eyes. Are you going to tell me that an angel would be scared of a little bit of holy water like that?”

Aziraphale shook his head and Crowley’s frown deepened. “So, what are you then? An angel, or a demon?”

“You need to go.”

Crowley was desperately wrong-footed, but it appeared that he wasn’t going to be swayed from his mission. He held the letter aloft, holding it between two, long fingers. “Why did you send me this letter?”

Aziraphale shook his head, “I told you why.”

Crowley tried again. “Why did you come to the shop after you saw Gabriel there? You were in a complete panic. You stood in the street outside all night. What was all that about?”

It was getting harder and harder for Aziraphale to hold onto his persona, to play the part he needed to. How much easier would it have been to be truthful? To explain it all to Crowley, to keep him here, to hold him safe. But that was just it, though, wasn’t it? He couldn’t even begin to hope that he would be able to keep Crowley safe, not yet. He couldn’t run with him or hide him or fight for him, not with any hope of any modicum of success. Why couldn’t Crowley’s questions have waited until Aziraphale was ready? There was a solution out there for them, he absolutely knew that, he just needed the time to find it before they made their move. How typical that Crowley should, once again, go too fast for him?

“I have told you,” he knew that his desperation was starting to bleed into his tone. “It was a game; I was playing with you. Nothing more. But I am not playing any games with a psychopathic Archangel. Now please, will you leave?”

Crowley edged back just a little. “You could make me leave, couldn’t you?”

“Of course. I could, this is my bookshop.”

“And yet you don’t.”

Aziraphale swallowed and did his best to swallow his fear and sound intimating. “Don’t push me.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow over his shades. “A demon with restraint? Really?”

And why was it that the damned snake could always slither rings around him? Even when he didn’t even know that he was a snake? “For goodness sake, Crowley! You just need to go! Don’t you realise what Gabriel will do to both of us if he knows you have been here?”

Still, he didn’t seem obliged to leave.

“Crowley… Why do you call me that?”

Aziraphale pushed out an exasperated sigh. “Why on Earth do you think? It’s your name, it always has been.”

“Always?”

“For a very long time.”

Crowley nodded. “It’s not a very _angelic_ name, really though, is it? Not like _Aziraphale.”_

Shaking his head, Aziraphale felt the tendrils of panic starting to wind around him and stepped towards Crowley, trying to shoo him towards the door. “Get out. I will be compelled to forcibly eject you, otherwise. Now please, go!”

Neatly, Crowley just sidestepped him and slid the letter back into his coat. “You said that we were friends. Six thousand years. That’s what you said in here. You said that you knew me better than any other being in existence.”

“I lied.” Again, Aziraphale tried to herd him towards the street.

“And yet you knew when I was at the end of my rope with that wedding. You could tell that not everything with Gabriel was as it should have been. You _do_ know me.”

Crowley was infuriating, so incredibly infuriating. And like a dog with a bone. A bone that was going to get them both slaughtered. “You’re my hereditary enemy. We’ve spent millennia thwarting each other, of course I’ve made a study of your character.”

Crowley stared at him, appraising. Aziraphale could picture the expression he would be wearing under his glasses. “Gabriel said that you tortured me. For centuries. Every time he tells me the story, it gets a little bit more horrific, a bit more nauseating. Why would he do that if he loved me?”

Aziraphale swallowed his anger.

“And you. Look at this place. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the little plates of crumbs you leave out for the mice. Are you really telling me that a demon who tortured me just about out of my mind would do that?”

“The mice are not my enemy.”

Leaning in, just a shade, Crowley peered at him. “And I am? So, that’s why you peeled my wings to the bone? And ripped them from my back? Burnt them to nothing as I watched? That’s why you pinned me to the wall with celestial blades? Let me drip my life’s blood to the floor, every last drop, before you healed me and started it all again? That’s why you flayed my skin? Peeled it from my back and forced it into my mouth as a gag as you moved on to the rest of my body? That’s why you violated me like a human? Held me down and-”

“No!” The volcano erupted with vicious certainty. “No, I did _not_! None of that, oh, Crowley! _None of that!_ None of that even _happened_ to you!”

“So you said,” the fingers of one of Crowley’s hands curled into a fist, the others tapped on the outside of the pocket where he’d stashed his letter. “In here. But if that _were_ the case, then I would still be an angel and yet – I’m not, am I? I _know_ I’m not; I can feel it… so what then, demon-Aziraphale? What is the truth? What is it that you aren’t telling me? Because I know that there is something. _I know it.”_

Panic seized Aziraphale then, gripped him by the lapels and shook him. Crowley couldn’t do this, he just couldn’t – working it out before the safety plan was in place was far, far too dangerous. He knew what Crowley was like, knew that he wouldn’t just drop it if he knew what Gabriel had done to him and right now, it needed to stop, it all had to stop before it got out of hand. “Get out!” he hissed, shoving at Crowley with his Grace, bundling him across the room, hustling him towards the door. “Get out, get out, get out!” Crowley stumbled into the street. “And do not come back or I shall be forced to, be forced to…” Panic swirled inside him. “Do _all of that_ to you! Yes! Like a demon! I shall!” he swallowed, “So don’t. Don’t come back. Don’t ever!”

Crowley turned, staring at him, his expression blank and Aziraphale retreated back over the threshold, slamming the doors after him, warding them for good measure before collapsing against them, his heart racing, and a nasty, cold sweat standing out over his shoulders.

He needed to find this solution and he needed to find it before Crowley discovered something that would tip him over the edge.

~~**~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More as soon as I get it done :)


	16. It Had Never Been Like This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all - thanks for your patience, life has returned to somewhat-normal now and so I should be okay for the Sun-Wed posting to continue. :)
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains domestic abuse, controlling and coercive behaviours. It also references violence which is NOT graphically described. 
> 
> A note on tags. This story has carried tags for Domestic Abuse and Controlling/Coercive Behaviour ever sense we first met Adam/Gabriel. 
> 
> At this point, however, I am unsure as to how common these terms are outside of the UK, and feel that it might be helpful if I defined them.
> 
> The definitions below come from the Crown Prosecution Service for the UK. (The service who try cases on behalf for the Queen and the Police). 
> 
> Domestic Abuse:   
> ‘Domestic abuse’ covers a range of types of abuse, including, but not limited to, psychological, physical, sexual, financial or emotional abuse. ‘Domestic abuse’ can be prosecuted under a range of offences and the term is used to describe a range of controlling and coercive behaviours, used by one person to maintain control over another with whom they have, or have had, an intimate or family relationship.  
> Domestic abuse is rarely a one-off incident and is the cumulative and interlinked types of abuse that have a particularly damaging effect on the victim.   
> The ‘domestic’ nature of the offending behaviour is an aggravating factor because of the abuse of trust involved.
> 
> Controlling/Coercive Behaviour:  
> ‘Controlling or Coercive behaviour’ describes behaviour occurring within a current or former intimate or family relationship which causes someone to fear that violence will be used against them on more than one occasion, or causes them serious alarm or distress that substantially affects their day to day activities. It involves a pattern of behaviour or incidents that enable a person to exert power or control over another, such as isolating a partner from their friends and family, taking control of their finances, everyday activities like what they wear or who they see, or tracking their movements through the internet or mobile phone use.
> 
> Controlling Behaviour:  
> A range of acts designed to make a person subordinate and/or dependant by isolating them from sources of support, exploiting their resources and capacities for personal gain, depriving them of the means needed for independence, resistance and escape and regulating their everyday behaviour. 
> 
> Coercive Behaviour:  
> An act or a pattern of acts of assaults, threats, humiliation and intimidation or other abuse that is used to harm, punish, or frighten their victim. 
> 
> Most of that is evident in this chapter.
> 
> Link: https://www.cps.gov.uk/domestic-abuse
> 
> _________________________

Sofa would be lying if she said that the past five, almost six, years had been plain sailing. Of course there had been glitches and potholes, of course Crowley had had his down times and his bad days. Of course it had been tough in places – but it had never been like this, Sofa had never felt the way she did now.

Crowley had returned home in a temper, throwing his jacket over the little dining table and crashing his way around the room, chuntering to himself, snatches of anger that Sofa didn’t really understand. ‘ _Who does he think he is?’, ‘Does he think I’m stupid?’, ‘He’s the one who started all of this in the first place – what was he thinking if he wasn’t going to following it through?’, ‘What is his game here?’, ‘What is he playing at?’_

Yet again, Sofa couldn’t help him, couldn’t soothe him. She’d become better at it, this last week, had found ways that she could calm him, but only as he lay on her. Only as he lay on her and they watched TV together and he talked to her about the way his life was spinning even further out of his control, about how he suspected that Gabriel had never loved him at all, how he couldn’t work Alex out, how he just didn’t seem to fit in any boxes, how he seemed familiar somehow… or how maybe that was just the demonic effects of the letter.

The letter. Sofa had looked after it for weeks now, storing it safely under her cushions, knowing that she would only ever let Crowley’s fingers be the ones who lifted her up, slide those crumpled pages back out into the day light, share the secrets of the words inside with the rest of the room. She wasn’t sure what all of it said, of course he’d read out snippets here and there, but that didn’t matter; whatever was in that letter, Crowley took huge comfort from it, it soothed him (and vexed him) more than she ever could and it was his: that was all it took for Sofa to know that she would protect it until her legs had splintered and her leather was worn and cracked.

Crowley paced some more, then he went and stood at the window, his usual slouch replaced by unfamiliar straight-backed tension. Sofa watched him and worried for him, whatever this was, was getting worse, and waited for him to entrust her with his envelope once more. The afternoon drew on, the room around them started to darken, bit by bit the tension seeped from Crowley’s spine until he was sagging against the window and then, with a sigh, announced, “I’m going for a shower.” He sauntered across the room, grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels off the kitchen counter and swallowed a good portion of it in one. Then, he slid into the room at the back, closing the door behind him – and leaving the envelope in the pocket of his jacket on the dining table.

Sofa sighed to herself; she knew this pattern now. Crowley would stay in the shower until all the alcohol had gone and then, wet and cold and only wrapped in a towel, he would slip into sleep somewhere. If she was lucky, he would make it back out here and she could look after him until his headache woke him up – more likely, going by past occurrences – he would only get as far as his bed and there he would collapse on top of the covers, tossing and moaning and crying out in fear whilst Sofa could do nothing but listen.

She was still ruminating on this sad state of affairs, straining her non-existent ears for the sound of the shower, when a frisson of energy disturbed her and, right next to her left-hand arm rest appeared that prick, Gabriel, once more. Sofa seethed and glared at him the very best that she could. He’d not had the nerve to appear back here since the afternoon when he had hurt her Crowley, and she had not forgiven him for that – would never forgive him for that.

She watched him now as he looked around the room. She saw him cock his head – listening – and knew that he was considering heading into the bathroom himself. He obviously thought better of that, though, and thought better of flicking on a light in order to combat the gathering gloom. Instead he simply sat himself down at the dining table, adjusted the creases in his trousers until they lay straight and, dark and silent, settled in to wait.

__

The wait was long, and Sofa was surprised at the patience that Gabriel had shown as he’d sat in silence. But then, she nervously acknowledged, he probably had an awful lot to think about as Crowley drank his alcohol and tried to wash his problems down the shower drain.

She tried to warn him, desperately tried to send him a message that he had a visitor, that there was trouble awaiting him in his own living room, that a confrontation was absolutely coming his way. Another one. She didn’t think that he’d heard her, didn’t think that her contact-occult was strong enough for that, but maybe he had – it was certainly odd that he had come back into the living area at all instead of just passing out on the bed. He was dry as well, still just wrapped in a towel, but dry. It didn’t stop him from startling out of his skin when Gabriel greeted him, though.

“Tom.”

Sofa felt his fear, knew that Gabriel would have felt it too, watched as a smile slipped across the angel’s face. Crowley recovered fast – or, at least, he tried to. “Gabriel. You not think this is fucking creepy then? Sitting in the dark waiting for me like this? You never thought to let me know you were here?”

“ _God is light; in Her there is no darkness at all_. If there was any light in _you_ at all, you would have known. You should take the time to become more familiar with the bible, Tom, instead of gadding about across half of London.”

Crowley crossed to the wall near the TV and Sofa watched as he forced himself to lounge against the white expanse of it all. “What are you on about? I was in the shower – if you’d have come in, you could have checked. I could have sucked you off.”

Gabriel stared at him, his face impassive and Sofa felt her stitches tighten. “You’ve been in all day?”

There was a pause, the tiniest of pauses as Crowley weighed him up, but it was enough to send Sofa’s fear spiking, and to get the twitch of a smile flickering the edges of Gabriel’s lips. “You told me to stay in, remember? I’ve not opened the shop, not been to the flower market… just like you told me.”

There was a silence as Gabriel considered, and Sofa held her breath and then he nodded. “Good. Glad to hear it. Nice to see that you are following my directions for once.” The way that Crowley sagged was also obvious to Sofa.

“You haven’t seen that demon, Aziraphale, then?” Gabriel’s voice was light, but there was a threat in it that Sofa hoped Crowley could hear.

Another pause, “You told me not to.”

This time, Gabriel’s smile was wide. “I tell you a lot of things which you ignore.”

“Do you think I want to get myself killed? Tortured?”

Gabriel stared at him, seemed to look right into him, and Sofa watched as Crowley pulled his arms across his thin chest, folding them tightly across himself; she really wished that she could be the one to hold him together like that. Gabriel sighed and shook his head. “I’ve never seen any evidence that you are intelligent enough to be able to consider the consequences of your actions in such a complex manner.”

Flushing, Crowley tightened his arms further. “You don’t have to insult me all the time, you know. Especially not if you love me as you claim.”

“That again?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “I am the Archangel Gabriel – I love all things.”

Crowley lifted his chin. “All things. All things equally? You not think that maybe I should be worth a little more than that?”

Silence. Sofa’s leather seats squeaked ever so slightly as she tightened them up. Gabriel continued to stare at Crowley, his head sliding to one side before he let out a long, drawn sigh. “You are the _most_ pathetically needy creature I have ever come across, and monumentally ungrateful to boot. Don’t think I have been fooled by the vagaries of your answers, either.” He paused, fixed Crowley with his unsettling eyes, “Where have you been this afternoon?”

Crowley stiffened.

Sofa stiffened.

“I went for a walk.”

“Into Soho?”

“No.” Crowley’s face was impassive; he didn’t swallow or twitch or shirk Gabriel’s eye. Sofa was impressed with his nerve, even as her heart sank.

Gabriel leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You’re really going to stand there and lie to my face? Have you forgotten who I am?”

“What do you even care what I do?” the conflicting emotions rolling from Crowley were making Sofa dizzy. “I think we have surmised that I am nothing to you.”

And Gabriel looked surprised at that. Sitting up again, his eyes wide. “Nothing?” he shook his head. “Oh no, dear Tom, you’re not _nothing_ , you’re not nothing at all. You are a _tool_ – and a rather essential tool, even though I hate to admit it.”

Crowley pushed off the wall a little, unfolding his arms. “Yeah? Well, maybe I have had enough of being your _tool_ , Gabriel.”

“Really?” Gabriel’s eyes were now up in his hairline.

“Yes,” Crowley took a step in, his fingers fluttering to the edges of the towel around his waist, tightening it a little. “Maybe it would just be better if I moved out, started standing on my own two feet as it were. It’s not that I’m not grateful for all you have done, of course... But…” he tailed off, awkwardly.

There was a long pause. “You really think you can actually do that?”

“Funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.” Gabriel rose to his feet, taking a step in so that he was slightly closer to Crowley than could be considered polite, Sofa stiffened and wished that she could drag herself in between the two of them. “This,” he waved a supercilious hand around the room, “this _rebellious streak_ … Whilst it is hardly a _new_ development as far as you have been concerned, I had thought that it was going through a dormant phase. This _revival_ I’m seeing, this worm, ha, no this _snake_ , turning – it wouldn’t have anything to do with _this_ , now would it?”

The letter appeared in Gabriel’s fingers, waving provocatively in the air between them. Sofa felt herself shudder in the wave of fear that came crashing off Crowley and watched, her non-existent heart sinking as he made a wild grab for it. “Give that here!”

With the reactions of an Archangel, Gabriel vanished the envelope into nothing. “Nope,” he said, his mouth widening into a sinister grin as he held Crowley’s wide, amber eyes. Then he started to take off his jacket, shaking his head whilst he spoke, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt, folding them back up his arms into neat, perfectly equal rolls. “ _A fortune made by people who tell lies amounts to nothing and leads to death._ ” He sing-songed, looking into Crowley’s stricken expression. “It’s like I said, Tom. You really ought to spend more time reading the bible, and then, perhaps, we wouldn’t have to go through _this_.”

__

Sofa had spent a long portion of her existence without ever feeling anger. She couldn’t imagine that now, not when the anger was all that she felt, not when it seethed and bubbled through her stuffing and her springs and her leather and all the way down to her stubby, wooden feet. She couldn’t see much of Crowley from where he’d ended up on the floor, the dining table was blocking her view. All she could see were his legs from the shins down, white and finely boned: marked and smudged in blood. One of them had been broken, too, bent in places no human leg was ever supposed to bend; it felt as though the cry he’d made when Gabriel had healed it again would reverberate in her inner self for the rest of time. 

“There now,” Gabriel, utter bastard that he was, was still in the flat, bright and chipper, knelt at Crowley’s side, healing him in a manner that had the demon gasping and whimpering all over again. “Does that feel better? I bet it does. Still think you don’t need me, then? I would have liked to have seen you heal yourself, if you’d been on your own.”

For a long moment, there was silence and Sofa willed it to last, but then, from the floor at Gabriel’s knees came a tired and pained, “I wouldn’t have needed healing at all, if I’d been on my own, would I?”

There was another smack of skin on skin, another grunt of hurt and a theatrical sigh from the Archangel. “And there you go again. Do you know what it’s like for me to have to try and deal with all of this attitude, all of this _sass_ from you, all of the time? Do you think I like having to keep putting you in your place like this?”

_Please don’t answer him,_ Sofa willed.

“It _destroys_ me,” the whine in Gabriel’s voice was nauseating. “To hurt you like this when I love you so, so much. But what else can I do when you drive me to it over and over again? You never learn. You _never_ learn, and I’m the one who pays the price every damn time.”

There was still no response from the floor and Sofa was so relieved, even if she hated to think that, finally, Gabriel had stolen all of Crowley’s fight.

The bastard sat back on his heels then, sighing, and Sofa watched as he ran his eyes up and down the figure sprawled in front of him, his lips pursed in disappointed scrutiny. He sighed again, “Well, I think I’ll leave it at that, let the rest heal up on their own, yes? Give you something to think upon.”

He picked up the discarded bath towel and wiped his hands on it, smearing the damp cotton with blood. Then he frowned and reached up to his own face, surprised to find blood from his own corporation dripping from his nose, the perfect line of it bumpy and misshapen. His expression darkened and the shimmer of a miracle skittered across Sofa’s leathers as the symmetry of the Archangel’s face reasserted itself.

Gabriel pushed to his feet and started unrolling his sleeves. “I own you, Tom.” It seemed that the discovery of his own broken nose had sucked away his darkly chipper mood, leaving only the dark behind. “It’s time for you to stop the hostility now, and just accept who you are, what you’ve become. And this ridiculous fascination with that demon…” he shook his head, exasperated. “I suppose I should have expected it, shouldn’t I? I guess that I’m gonna have to be the one to put a stop to that now. You had your chance and you lied to me.” He pulled his jacket on and tugged his shirt sleeves down under the cuffs, smoothing the violence from his entire Earthly form. “Right. Well. That’s that then, isn’t it? You just need to lie there, now, and think about every way you have disappointed me, everything you have done to throw my continued generosity and love back in my face and just,” he shrugged, “give up. Think about everything I’ve said and let it all happen. Then it won’t hurt either of us anymore. And we can be happy again. Like we were before this demon showed up. You think you can do that? For me?”

Sofa waited as Gabriel towered over Crowley, and sagged, equal parts relief and despair at the grunt of assent she heard from the floor. Gabriel frowned and gave the prone form at his feet a nudge with his shiny Oxfords: a warning. “Oh, come on now,” he chided, “you can do better than that.”

_Play his game,_ Sofa pleaded. _Please, just play his game._

“Yes, Archangel Gabriel.”

Gabriel smiled, wide and stupid and straightened his jacket. “Atta boy. And maybe I’ll make an angel out of you yet.”

Crowley didn’t move, didn’t respond, and a flicker of Gabriel’s smug fell away.

“Stay in this flat,” he barked. “Do not leave for _anything_.” He turned away, heading for the door like the human he absolutely was not. “I have loose ends I need to cut.”

Sofa hated him, she hated him more than any sofa had ever hated anything ever. Which probably wasn’t saying very much, but still – she despised him with every single sliver of her being and hate is a powerful emotion. In humans it can trigger bursts of adrenalin. In the occult and ethereal, it can lend the power to perform miracles otherwise unthought of. In inanimate-objects-turned-sentient-through-prolonged-exposure-to occult-beings, it seemed it also had its hidden treasures.

Gabriel took a step her way, humming pleasantly to himself as he negotiated the gap between her left arm and the dining set. At the last possible moment, Sofa threw everything she had, every little spark of hatred, into her being and skipped herself two inches through space. Two inches to her left. It wasn’t much, but it was two inches further than a sofa had ever moved on its own before, and it was just enough for Gabriel to swing his own shin right into the wooden fronting of her armrest.

The howl of pain he made was satisfying. There was a moment of panic as he glanced Crowley’s way, but, apparently satisfied that the demon hadn’t managed to resurrect his powers in any manner, Gabriel just sneered down at the innocently standing Sofa, kicking out at her foot with his, wincing again as it proved harder than he’d imagined. He took another, limping, step forward and then, with a pained sighed, just damned it all to Hell and shimmered right out of existence.

Sofa’s delight didn’t last long. A moan from behind the table wiped all her satisfaction away and replaced it with aching sorrow. She watched, helpless, as Crowley shakily pulled himself up to his knees, heaving on the dining chairs for support, and then, slowly, painfully, starting to crawl her way. He didn’t bother with the blood-stained towel and seemed to think better of trying to get to his feet, instead, hissing and wincing on his knees, all the way to her side, his white skin scattered in shades of red and purple. It seemed to take an age, but eventually he made it, climbing into her cushions with a shuddering sigh of relief.

_I’m sorry,_ she tried to tell him. _I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop him. I’m so sorry I’m so useless to you in all of this._ He didn’t reply though, he just sank into her embrace and lay still, letting Sofa hold him the best way she could.

~~**~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel is (almost) quoting John 1:5 and Proverbs 21:6


	17. Clear and Desperate and Welcome, All At Once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Major character almost-discorporation in an unnatural, but canon-compliant, manner. Not graphically described.
> 
> ______________________________

The bookshop on a prominent Soho corner had not always been a bookshop. It had started life in the mid seventeen-hundreds as draper’s shop, full of ribbons and muslins and silks from India and fine brocades. It hadn’t lasted that long, maybe ten years, before changing purpose, slightly, into a milliner’s, spending almost fifty happy years that way before an angel, with a demon in tow, wandered under its lintels and awoke its sentience.

It decided, after that day, that it liked being a bookshop far more than it had enjoyed being any of its other incarnations, but that was not quite accurate as it couldn’t really remember what it had been like to be a place frequented by the finest ladies of London looking to update their already-fine wardrobes; what it liked was its newly-gifted awareness.

Unlike Sofa, and the Bentley, who came across their sentience in a slow and ever-increasing manner, Bookshop awoke with a start, fully aware of all around it, and remained at that level of awareness for the next two hundred years, happy to sit back and watch and do very little else.

Life with the angel who had given it this cognisance was, generally, steady and stable. The angel liked his routines, he liked his own company (a great deal of the time), he liked his macarons and his teas and his wines and, of course, his books. He also seemed to very much enjoy the company of a certain demon, the demon who had been there when Bookshop first awoke. Maybe that was why Bookshop liked the demon too, she liked the _frisson_ he brought with him whenever he visited, she liked the variety and the unpredictability and the very edge of naughty he carried around with him – she thought that the angel liked all of that too if the way he lit up inside whenever the demon burst in through the previously-locked doors was anything to go by. The Bookshop would never, ever bar entry to that demon.

There were others, though, far less welcome than her angel and her demon. Other angels, mostly, with their sanctimonious looks and the way that they tried so very hard to keep from touching Bookshop as they entered. Or touching any of the humans. Or any of the books. Or the angel. But there was also the occasional demon, over time, with their stench and their aura of filth and evil. Bookshop did all that it could to keep them out and wondered, over and over again, why they were so abhorrently different from _her_ demon.

Two hundred years was a long time to be aware, it was tiring, and, whilst Bookshop didn’t sleep as such, not like her demon, she did like to drift. Sometimes whole decades passed by with her barely aware of what was happening around her, not quite _Rip Van Winkle_ , but almost. Yes, she opened her doors and she made sure that her forgetful angel put the lights out as he left on an out-of-town job, but she didn’t really allow herself to focus any further than that. It was pleasant, in a way, to just sit and let life meander around her, and it was always surprising, when she awoke, to see the changes she had missed: the development, the motor cars, the fashions, the sex shops, the vaping – until the day she awoke from a very unpleasant reverie of flames and screaming, and realised that she had missed the demon vanishing completely.

The angel had never been the same after that; it was as if he were encased in a bubble of melancholy where he could interact with the world around him and it could interact with him, but he was always just a little bit closed off, just a little bit absent.

And then the angel’s vitality was back, even if it was in a manic sort of way and, of course, her demon was back – but also, not really. Bookshop didn’t like it, but not being a creature used to needing to act or needing to feel, she really didn’t know what on Earth she could do about it – apart from letting them both in, letting them both out, over and over and over again.

She’d been drifting the last time the demon had been to visit, coming back to herself to find the angel forcing him out of her doors and on to the street like a common criminal. It wasn’t the first time they had argued, absolutely not, it wasn’t even the first time that the angel had thrown his demonic companion out of the shop, but it was the first time he had done so with real and absolute fear driving him. And it hadn’t been fear of the demon, this demon, Bookshop had been sure about that. It had been fear of something else, something far more damaging, in the end.

It needled her, then, that she had missed that, that she had missed whatever it was that had precipitated the ejection and vowed that she would pay more attention from then on in, that she would make sure she would be awake should she be needed to try and knock some sense into the pair of them.

It was the darkest hour of the night as she watched the angel fretting at his desk. Again. He’d done a lot of that over the last few days, fretted and flicked backwards and forwards through books, scribbled notes in writing far from his usual copper-plate neatness, paced up and down his lines of texts, worried at his cuffs and his buttons and his bow-tie and his hair until it stood up in anxious little peaks all over his head. Bookshop knew that, should she have hair, hers would be doing the exact same thing.

He never seemed to settle, though, never seemed to be able to come up with anything that made him even the slightest bit happier, the slightest bit more stable. He was just winding himself up further and further and if Bookshop knew anything about him at all, then she knew that an anxious angel was not an angel predisposed to good decision-making.

As much as she was awake and watching over one of her charges, the arrival of another very much caught Bookshop unawares. As a rule, any being to enter her did so through the doors. Occasionally her angel, or more often her demon, would appear directly inside, but not often and it was usually when they had something they wanted to hide. She very much got the idea that this was the case with her current interloper as well.

The shimmer he made as he materialised straight into her entrance would have made her shiver if she’d been able, as it was, she watched as her angel stiffened and turned and she felt the cold wave of fear which ran around the room, which was decidedly odd.

Her angel stood and turned, tugging his waistcoat down in that strangely determined manner he had before he lifted his chin and stared his unwelcome visitor in the eye. “Gabriel,” Bookshop could hear the way that his voice wavered. “I am afraid that I am going to have to ask you to leave. You are not welcome here in the slightest.”

The angel called Gabriel seemed slightly taken aback at that and Bookshop thought, for the briefest of moments, that he _was_ going to leave. He didn’t though, instead he laughed, cold and bitter and enough to make even the steady old bookshop worry and then, so fast that she could barely keep up, he flicked a finger and her angel was propelled through the air and slammed into a bookshelf, his eyes wide in panic, his feet flailing helplessly half a metre off the floor, his hands twitching where they were pinned to his beloved books as Gabriel advanced on him.

“No,” he spat, and Bookshop had to check again, had to make sure, that this _was_ an angel of the Lord right her inside her as he absolutely did not act like one. “Enough of this stupid dance and your stupid manners and your stupid, stupid _face_!” The anger was most unholy. “Enough of _you_ , Aziraphale. You’re going to back to Heaven to face your consequences there.”

It was clear that her angel wanted to speak, wanted to plead or threaten or bluster or beg, but whatever it was that Gabriel was doing, wasn’t going to let a single sound leave his mouth.

Gabriel advanced across the room, stalking her pinned angel like a mongoose, _Rikki-Tikki-Tavi_ himself, and Bookshop desperately tried to think, desperately tried to find something that she could do to balance the odds a little – the malevolence pouring from Gabriel was enough to curl the paint off her doors. “I should have done this eons ago,” he laughed, his shiny shoes clicking on her floors. “Taken your words. They were never worth listening to anyway, pointless, worthless angel that you are.”

Bookshop watched the angel swallow, felt his shame and felt her own wrath awaken.

“I’m busy, now though, Aziraphale. I have already wasted too much time today on this stupid rock, spent too much time in sorting out the messes of _your_ meddling.”

Her angel’s eyes opened wide and Bookshop could hear his heart thumping hard in his corporeal chest.

“So, let me get to the point, get a few things off my chest, and then I can discorporate you, get rid of your loathsome presence once and for all, and then be free to get back to my day. Okay?” Gabriel seemed to wait for an answer he knew he wasn’t going to get and chuckled as he looked Aziraphale in the eyes and straightened his jacket. “Ahh, silence is golden, yes?” He chuckled again. “Okay then. Where shall I start?” he mulled in silence for a moment as Bookshop and her angel waited. “Well, you knew my plan, my original plan, but they say that even the best of plans doesn’t survive contact with the enemy and so now I have – _refined_ it slightly. Amended it. Improved it even. Yes, _improved_ it, let’s stick with that.” He beamed, wide and insincere.

“Originally, as you know, this was all about _you_ , about you being the very worst that the Almighty had to offer, and about you getting your comeuppance after all your ridiculous meddling.”

Bookshop watched as Aziraphale blinked and swallowed and Gabriel paced around in front of him, seeming to enjoy his very own _Svengali_ moment. “And, about me, I suppose, having my fun with your tame demon just to watch you squirm and cry and know how pitiable and worthless you both were,” he paused in his pacing to smile brightly Aziraphale’s way. “And yes, that has been exceptional fun but now… well, I hate to admit that it’s losing its edge just a little.”

The pacing restarted, and Bookshop felt his feet thrumming up and down on her aged floorboards like the beat of a rotten heart – _The Tell-Tale Heart_. She wished she could just open them up, let him plummet down and down until he fell straight into the Earth’s flaming core – or somewhere even worse.

“I was disappointed that you sent him away when he came for you, it would have been far more exciting had you both run from me. Then, I could have hunted you down and that would have been fun, but I suppose that you were always going to be the frightened little angel who, when push came to shove, was never going to go up against those more powerful than yourself – not without the anti-Christ holding your hand at any rate.”

They glared at each other and Bookshop was so proud of her angel, even as she knew that he was hopelessly out of his depth. “So, yeah, _boring_ , Aziraphale, that’s what you are. And to think that you dreamed a demon might even love you... Why would he? I mean, _seriously_? _Why would he_? Why would _anyone_?”

It was left hanging, even though they all knew that Aziraphale wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , answer him. Bookshop knew the truth though, knew the love that Aziraphale had originated through the years from all manner of beings, not just the demon. 

Gabriel considered him, “Not that I really care what you think, anyway.” He turned on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. “So, what do we have now then? You, not worth the pain in the ass you are being, not worth the pain the ass you are turning my little pet into, either. Because he _is_ my pet now, you do understand that, don’t you?” He stopped again, Lord of the melodrama and smiled at the angel. “And, do you know? I think I finally see what it is about him that has had you dancing such a dangerous and deceitful game for all these years. He’s delightful, isn’t he? The way he fights and sparks and pushes and questions – and then just crumples up into himself like a punctured football when he realises how low he is in the world, how wretched, how crushed. I’m enjoying the game. I’m enjoying him thinking he’s gaining ground on me just to see his little face fall when he realises that I was on to him the whole time. I’m enjoying him thinking that, one day, he will get to be a _proper_ angel again, and I will enjoy, so much, taking that from him, piece by piece by piece. Oh, and I an enjoying _him_ , too, if you get what I mean?” the waves of hatred washing from the angel surprised Bookshop in their levels of cold loathing. “I had never really understood your preoccupation with Earthly pleasures, Aziraphale but, whoo… yeah. Having him like that? I can certainly see it all now. I might even try eating one day, too, see what that’s like – not that anything could be better than fucking him.”

Gabriel’s pacing had brought him right back into the angel’s space. Right back under his nose and he was standing there now, looking up at him still pinned against the bookshelves that both he and Bookshop loved so much, standing there and smiling and Bookshop herself had never felt so much hatred.

“So, yeah. This might have started off being about _you_ , but now, quite frankly, you’re just in the way. Michael says I shouldn’t destroy you; well, fine, she can decide what we do with you, now.” Gabriel smiled, wide and ingenuine. “You’re getting a one-way ticket home, sunshine, you happy about that? Hmm? Not so much? No?” the smile broadened further. “Shame. You’re going anyway. I could do it right now, couldn’t I? Just press my finger here,” he reached up with a manicured forefinger and Bookshop watched, helpless, as he pressed it, gently, right in the centre of Aziraphale’s forehead. He saw the way that the angel shuddered, saw his eyes sweep shut, only to flash open again, brave despite the hopeless odds. “Get that miracle ready,” Gabriel’s voice was soft, a mocking caress, “and, three, two, one… poof!”

Aziraphale startled, his eyes closing once more, his helpless body jerking, and Gabriel drew back, his wide laughter reverberating around the shop. “Haha!” he was almost doubled up in mirth. “You should see your face right now! Ah, this is actually more fun than I’d _ever_ imagined.” Slowly, the laughter died, melting from his handsome face to be replaced by a sneer so cold that Bookshop could not help to wondering, again, what side this being actually represented.

“But no – not like that,” his voice was low now, a gentle caress. “Not for you. No - for you, my dear pain-in-the-ass Principality, I am going to make it a far more _Earthly_ experience. Draw it out a little, let you experience it in all of its painful details.” He stepped up close, craned his neck to meet the angel’s wide eyes. “Apart from that pitiful excuse for a demon, I know what else you love on this stupid planet – this stupid bookshop, right? With all its stupid books and its other material objects and all the gross matter you keep in those cupboards, over there. You want to watch it die in front of you? You want to watch it burn, before the flesh starts to drip off your own corporation and you join it?” The smile was back. “Ooh, yeah, I can see that you do. I can see how much you would _love_ to do that.”

Bookshop knew what burning was. She had been there, one day, had lived through all of that. Just because it had been put back the way it was beforehand, didn’t mean that she didn’t know what was coming her way.

“There,” Gabriel pulled a book from her shelves right underneath the angel’s arm and opened it up, bending it so far that Bookshop heard its spine break, saw the angel wince in response. “Give me a minute here.” He wandered away again, to the other side of the aisle, and pushed a chair out of the way, cleared a couple of boxes and book stacks, checking over his shoulder the whole time to where the angel remained pinned to the shelving. “Good enough view?” he offered, jovially. Gabriel then squatted down and lay the book at his feet, right at the base of a set of shelves. “You can see okay when I do this?” A box of matches appeared in his hand at that and Aziraphale’s futile struggles returned. A match was struck and cradled in the Archangel’s hand until the flame was bright and dancing. Then he leant forward, and Bookshop found a draught, cultivated it, manoeuvred it, sent it the way of the flame, let it loose.

The little draught tried, as Bookshop had tried, but the match only guttered slightly before Gabriel set it to the tinder-dry leaves of the book, smiling as the tongues of flames lapped greedily over their treat, curling the aged pages, stealing the words from the world. “Yeah? You getting this?” Gabriel threw a smile over his shoulder as he straightened up and watched the burning book at his feet. “Okay, awesome.” He spun on his Oxfords and stalked back to Aziraphale’s side. “Well – you hang in there as long as you can, buddy, and I guess I’ll see you topside. And then we can have a chat with Michael, see what she wants to do with the angel who defied the Great Plan once he doesn’t have an Earthly form to cling to anymore.” His smile cranked up another level. “You up for that? You got anything you want to say?” His laughter still sounded loud, even above the crackling of the poor book. “Oh, yes, silly me! Hold on there, right,” he clicked his fingers in Aziraphale’s face. “Here’s your moment, what do you want to go down as your last Earthly words? Not than anyone cares, mind you, but you’ll be used to that anyway.”

Bookshop watched and listened, even as she could feel the heat of the fire scorching her floorboards. Maybe her wonderfully intelligent angel had something for her? Maybe he could tell her what to do to save them both?

She watched as he drew a breath and fixed Gabriel’s lilac eyes with his own. “You will not get away with this, Gabriel,” he muttered, his voice low – a promise, not a threat – but Gabriel’s face crumpled in distaste, his expression sour.

“Really? _Really_? That’s what you’re choosing as your last words? Oh, Aziraphale… pathetic buddy, just pathetic.”

Aziraphale didn’t flicker. “The Almighty sees all,” he whispered, and Gabriel’s expression was wiped clean.

“She does, She does… and yet here we still are, yeah? And what does that tell you, then?” Aziraphale just stared at him and Gabriel nodded. “Goodbye, loser. See you in Heaven,” and then he was gone.

Bookshop watched as Aziraphale struggled, thrashing against the books, hoping against hope that that binds the Archangel had put on him would lessen with the other’s departure. Nothing seemed to change though, not fast enough at any rate; Aziraphale could blink and flail his head around, could clench and unclench his fingers, but he couldn’t speak any more, couldn’t free himself, couldn’t seem to throw around any miracles that would save either of them. He could only wait, and stare, wide eyed and horrified, and watch the flames grow higher as tears ran tracks through the gathering soot on his face as he slowly, slowly, slid down the shelves towards the floor.

Bookshop tried too. She had been here before, of course, and knew from her memories how pointless it was to try and resist, but how could she not? The last time had been bad enough, burning, all alone, in the way that she had, but this time, knowing that her angel was there with her, was _burning_ with her, was about to leave the Earth for the final time and spend the rest of his miserable existence with those dreadful angels up in Heaven, well, that made it all twenty times worse. So, Bookshop tried, she really did, but what could she do about a fire that had been set by an Archangel himself?

The heat was building. The books were tinder dry and caught easily, one after the other after the other. Some of them had been in this building for a very long time, as long as it had been a bookshop, and Bookshop could almost hear them screaming as their pages succumbed to the angry tongues. The furnishings caught, the desk, the wing-backed chair, the hat stand, the gramophone… Bookshop thought and tried to remember, _Black Beauty, Jane Eyre_ … fires, fires, but had there ever been a successful escape? There was nothing to help her, nothing at all.

And then… and then, what did any of it matter anymore? Her angel’s movements were slowing, the thrashing becoming more like jerking, he had already stopped clenching and unclenching his fists, he had stopped staring around him with wide, wet eyes which were no longer blinking through the smoke as they had catalogued the end of his world.

As Bookshop watched in helpless horror, he stopped, stopped everything – everything – and slowly slipped to the floor.

Bookshop felt anger and despair and hopelessness tear through her as she realised that she was on her own again. Just like the first time, she was going to expire on her own. There was no one here with her now, no one to fight for her. There would be no jets of water smashing her windows and trying to save her heart, not this time; the humans hadn’t even seemed to notice that she was burning, and she doubted that they ever would. She was alone, completely alone. Just like before.

Except – she hadn’t been alone that last time, had she? No, the demon had been there with her, _Inferno_ itself, looking for her angel, doing his best to find him to try and stop the burning which had almost consumed her entire being by that point. He’d not been able to help, of course he’d not, and he’d not been able to find the angel either, but he _been there,_ and he’d raged and sobbed and taken the single book which had ended up saving them all.

He hadn’t been able to help her, but still – it had been nice not to die alone.

And then, almost as if she had conjured him up herself, there he was, doors flying open at his approach, his voice, clear and desperate and welcome, all at once.

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale! Where the Hell are you?”

He crashed straight into the burning heart of her, the flames reaching up to lick at his clothes, to curl up his long legs. He glowered down at them, and they withdrew, crawling at his feel like serpents, tongues trailing in his footsteps.

“I can’t find you!” his voice shook, broke. “Aziraphale!”

Bookshop felt the tiniest sliver of hope flickering into life in her core. It was just like the last time all over again, but _not_. This time, _this time_ the angel was still there, slumped on the floor at the foot of a shelving unit, the flames already clutching at his fine clothing, melting the treasured threads, scorching the flesh underneath, blistering, claiming, devouring… but he was _there, it was different_ , it was all still possible.

She could tell the exact second when her demon realised what the burning heap at the base of the bookshelf actually was. “No!” She felt his anguish and terror, but she knew that the angel was still there, was clinging on in the tiniest corner of his corporation, it wasn’t over yet – not for them.

But Bookshop herself was failing now, the flames had burnt through her supports, crashing the upper floor down into her heart. She could no longer see the angel for the flames and smoke, no longer see the demon, but she could feel him, feel his anger, his despair, his refusal to let this _be_ and she willed him on.

“No!”

She felt him fall to his knees at the angel’s side, felt him break in half, felt him almost, _almost_ give up the fight.

“Somebody killed him!”

The pain was real – but it was shoring him up, firing him up.

“Bastards! All of you! All! Of! You! No!!!!”

Bookshop felt the miracle as it exploded out from him. It was dark and smudged and acrid, nothing like the fresh, ozone taste of an angelic miracle, but it was powerful and swept everything away. Everything.

_Everything_.

The flames.

The smoke.

The carbon.

The floating embers.

Burnt clothing and scorched flesh.

Incinerated books and splintered beams.

They all blinked right out of existence, replaced by their alter-egos.

The darkened peace of the night.

The guttering street lamps outside.

The scratching of a restored mouse.

The silence of the untouched books.

The creaking of ancient floorboards.

The rustling of fine, Regency clothing.

Bookshop felt it all rush out of her, the heat, the fire, the fear. She heard the demon breathing, harsh and shaken and guttural, and then she heard the very best sound in the whole of creation, a moan, a sigh, a slight tut and then, a very confused, “Crowley?”

~~**~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fight-back gathers momentum :)


	18. What Did You Do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh - I have struggled with this chapter! It just would not come out the way I wanted it to. It's probably not going to get any better than it is now, though, so I'm posting anyway. I just hope that it's not too clunky. :/
> 
> ____________________________

They looked at each other, the angel and the demon, and then the demon exploded backwards, his face slack in shock, his limbs flailing as he scrabbled to his feet. “What did you do?” his breath came in short gasps. “ _What did you do_?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale looked down at himself, at his pristine attire, at the peachy flesh that he’d been sure had been blistered and scorched barely a moment since. He looked up at Crowley then, plastered, as he was, against the bookshelf and his confusion found its focus. He winced slightly, knowing the histrionics that were to come. “I rather think it wasn’t actually _me_ , my dear,” he offered gently.

“What did you do?” Crowley’s voice was rising. “You _made_ me come here. How did you do that?”

Slowly, heart thudding hard against his chest, Aziraphale pushed to his feet. “My dear, I didn’t-”

“You did! You made me! I had to come, I had to! _How did you do that?_ ”

Aziraphale shook his head – this was rapidly cyclising out of control and he had no idea how to save it. Two minutes ago, he’d still been trapped in the tatters of Gabriel’s miracle, his Earthly body burning around him, moments away from what would have been his very last discorporation, Crowley’s desperate shouts ringing in his ears. Now, he was being accused of something, but he wasn’t sure what and he wasn’t sure what to do about any of it. “I’m sorry… I am. I don’t know – you’ve always done it,” shame burnt at Aziraphale’s ears; how had he never questioned this before? “You’ve always just come when I’ve needed you to. _Always._ ”

Crowley’s eyes widened, looking naked and vulnerable without the protection of his glasses, the yellow bleeding out across every scrap of white. He was dressed in the usual palette of black: jacket, t-shirt, skinny jeans, boots, but his hair was well past the ‘artfully dishevelled’ state and his face… Aziraphale’s grabbed hold of his panic to force his eyes to catalogue the marks he could see all over his dearest friend. The red and purple swelling around those wide and panicked eyes, the scattering of cuts just visible in the closely cropped hair, a thick abrasion running from temple to cheek bone, the livid bruising across his jaw and, Aziraphale felt a fury ignite inside him, the obvious hand marks standing out in shades of red and blue around his neck. His jaw set and his blood sang, and he gestured, jerkily, in front of him. “Your face… Your… _everything_. Did Gabriel do that to you?” he knew that his voice was reverberating around the shelves of his shop, “Did he _hurt_ you?”

Crowley, however, didn’t seem to hear him, couldn’t seem to get past the events of the last few minutes himself. “You were burning,” he snapped, his own eyes jumping around the shop. “It was _all_ burning and you made me come. _What did you do?_ ”

Aziraphale shook his head again, the sight of his wonderful, effervescent demon so obviously brutalised injected white-hot anger into every single atom of his Earthly body. He reached out, his hands shaking, his fingers glowing. “How _dare_ he hurt you? _He dare he?_ I can heal you…”

“No!”

There was a scramble of limbs and falling books as Crowley desperately put some extra distance between himself and Aziraphale’s reaching, glowing fingers and it was so wrong, seeing Crowley so frightened of _him_ , that it somehow sounded a note of alarm through Aziraphale’s building fury. He paused and it began to dawn on him that _none_ of this was working out right. Crowley was furious and suspicious and horribly panicked, Aziraphale himself was seething and glowing, the righteous anger consuming him from the inside out. He suddenly realised how bringing out the avenging angel right now would not help de-escalate this situation at all.

He closed his eyes, dropped his hands and pulled in a deep, deep breath, letting it all out again, slow and controlled, expelling as much of his anger with it as he possibly could. He opened his eyes again, focussed on Crowley as he hovered at the other side of the shop, the readiness to bolt clear in every line of his taut frame and tried again. “I need to heal you,” he kept his voice low and gentle. “Gabriel has hurt you because he’d discovered you’d been here, hadn’t he?” The guilt swamped a little more of his anger then, allowed the lingering glow in his eyes to recede and the mild-mannered book seller to return. “I’m so, so sorry…” his throat closed in grief but then something else occurred to him, something worse. He swallowed, hard, trying to keep his own panic under control. “He’ll be back though,” his eyes drifted to the miraculously unspoiled floorboards, picturing the flames that had taken hold there, and then flicked back up to the frozen demon. “He _will_ be back, my dear, back for us both, and this time he will _not_ mess around.” He straightened up, gathered himself for what was to come. “Crowley – my dear – we need to leave.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at him and took another step backwards. “Leave?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale tried to stand still, tried to make his entire posture calming and unthreatening, but he was vibrating with anxiety and expecting Gabriel to crash amongst them at any second. Crowley’s injuries would have to wait, his own anger would have to wait, they had to run, and they had to run right the fuck _now_. There was nothing else for it: it was time for the one thing he had not wanted to do – had never wanted to do.

They had run right out of options.

It was time for his dreadful, _dreadful_ last-ditch plan.

Standing tall in his once-again resurrected bookshop, he tried to force calm into his words and tone. “I’m sorry to do this to you now, dear boy, so sorry, it’s _really_ not the time. But then,” he couldn’t help the anxious twisting of his fingers, “it’s _never_ been the right time for us, has it?”

Crowley, way over on the other side of the shop, just stared, blankly, at him.

“The thing is though,” Aziraphale supposed he was still hoping against hope that a better solution would present itself to him, would hop up on the desk at his side and wave, excitedly, at them both. He shook his head. “The thing is though, that time is the one thing we have absolutely run out of and so… there is nothing else for it.”

The demon stared, the angel took a breath.

“Crowley, my dear, we need to run, and we need to run to the only place in all of existence where Gabriel will be unwilling to follow us. The only place where, if we hide well enough, we could have the slightest chance of surviving this.” They stared at each other, Crowley’s anger tempered in confusion, Aziraphale attempting to bolster his flagging courage. “I’m sorry,” the hand-wringing was reaching ridiculous proportions, “I’ve tried to think of a way around it, I’ve thought and I’ve thought and I’ve _thought_ – but this is the only thing that I have come up with, and I know that it will carry a cost, for us both.”

“What the fuck-”

Aziraphale took a breath, jumped right over Crowley’s muttered confusion and just spat it out there. “Crowley, my dear, we need to hide in Hell.”

There was a moment of silence at that as Aziraphale tried to assess Crowley’s reaction, and Crowley himself took yet another shaking step backwards. “Hell?” his voice, when he found it, was barely above a whisper, but the horrified anger in it slammed into Aziraphale like a tsunami. “ _You want to take me to Hell_?”

Aziraphale thought about that for a moment, recognised the dreadfulness of it all and nodded anyway.

Crowley leaned in a little. “Why?” he spat. “So that you can finish the job you started on me?”

“What? No!” Aziraphale blinked and forced himself to sift through the jumble of lies Crowley had been fed. Lies from Gabriel, lies from himself… In the back of his mind, he could hear Anathema in that flat over the road from Crowley’s flower shop pleading and pleading with him to tell Crowley _everything_. But he hadn’t, had he? He’d been far too unimaginative for that – far too scared. And even now, in this most crucial of moments, his courage deserted him yet again and he sagged, beaten by it all, staring, aghast at the demon in front of him, wondering just where he could even start to untangle the mistrust and the fear. He blinked again, this time to try and clear the water swimming through his eyes, and wondered, absently, how many tears he’d shed over Crowley in these past almost six years, back when he’d thought he’d lost him for good.

But he hadn’t lost him for good, had he? Not yet, anyway.

“Okay,” he whispered brokenly, rallying himself for one last herculean effort, “okay...” He took a breath, braced himself and held Crowley’s angry eyes with his own. “You must know, by now, that Gabriel has lied to you, and, of course you have already worked out that I have lied to you as well, but that time has gone now. I was trying, very poorly, to protect you and I realise that I have not made any of this dreadful situation any better at all,” he shook his head – had he ever made more of an understatement than that? “I promise you now, though,” he projected every tiny bit of sincerity he possessed through his gaze, “that every word I tell you from this moment on, will be the truth. Every single word. Do you understand me?”

He waited, but Crowley only glared at him, his chest heaving breaths under his thin t-shirt and so, with desperate urgency thrumming through his veins, Aziraphale pushed on. “I am _not_ a demon,” he offered firmly. “I _am_ an angel, like I said in the letter. _Everything_ I said in that letter was true – I just, maybe missed out some of the other key facts.”

Crowley, however, shook his head at that, “Lie,” he spat. “I came here to talk about that letter, remember, and you said that it was all lies, that you were _toying_ with me, that was all.”

Aziraphale winced as regret bit at his fingers and toes like vengeful crabs. He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them once more, fixing the demon with a soulful, blue stare. “I did,” he whispered, “and I’m sorry for that but _they_ were the lies. I _had_ to get you to leave, I wasn’t ready to protect you. I _knew_ what Gabriel would do if he found out that you had come to the shop,” he waved a hand, expansively, at all the bruising and blood on the demon’s face. “And I’m _sorry_. I panicked and I lied. But I am telling you the truth _now_.”

Crowley studied him, his head tilted to one side. “So, you’re an angel, then?” the bitterness, the doubt, was hard to miss. “That makes sense, I suppose. I felt it, when you kicked me out. It was the same stench of righteous _holiness_ that Gabriel gets when he’s pissed off with me.”

They looked at each other, Aziraphale trying not to shudder, hating that, somehow, he had been lumped into a category with _Gabriel_.

“The torture then, you maintaining that that wasn’t you either? You’ve never tortured me? Never tried to destroy me?”

Solemnly, Aziraphale shook his head, “Never.”

Like a Roman Candle, Crowley lit up again at that, his mouth curling into a sneer, his hands folding into fists as he glared across the shop at Aziraphale. “No? Well, who the fuck _did_ then?”

The question rang through the heavy air, the silence it left in its wake as devastated as the expression on Aziraphale’s face.

“Well?”

Aziraphale winced at the volume.

“Who then? Who did it? _Who left me useless and crippled like this?_ ”

“Crowley… I…”

“Who? If not you, then _who_?”

There was a pain in Aziraphale’s chest like his heart was being squeezed in an iron fist. He shook his head, swallowed around the lump in his throat and forced himself to look straight into the heat of Crowley’s blazing expression. “My dear…” his voice shook, his hands shook, “ _you weren’t_. I promise you, you weren’t. No one has hurt you like that.”

Crowley jerked backwards and stared at him, blinked at him, and then lifted a trembling hand and tapped the side of his head with one, long, white finger. “But I see it,” he hissed, “in here. I see it and _I remember it all_. Every. Single. Moment.”

“No,” Aziraphale started forward but froze again as Crowley recoiled and then found that he had to blink through the moisture in his eyes. “ _None of that is real_. Gabriel put those images there. While you were sleeping. He fed you nightmares; he _told_ me that.”

Crowley couldn’t have looked more stunned if Aziraphale had slapped him. His mouth opened and closed but he couldn’t seem to find anything to say.

Aziraphale wrung his hands uselessly in front of him, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I know that this is so hard for you to understand.”

“I’m not stupid,” Crowley bit out. “I have no problems _understanding_. My issues are with your lies, _all of your lies_.”

It was all cycling further and further out of control and Gabriel was coming. _Gabriel was coming!_ “Crowley. I know I have lied to you, and I am sorry for that. But you have to believe me now. If we’re going to save ourselves, you have to start _trusting_ me.”

Crowley leaned in, settling his fists on the table in front of him, glaring in white hot anger across the metres that separated them. “You want me to trust you despite all the lies you’ve fed me? And, let’s not forget that you still want to take me to Hell!”

There was a pause, a moment as Aziraphale squirmed with the awkward truths yet to come, but he’d promised the truth, the truth he’d shied away from too many times already and so he gathered himself and held his nerve. “My dear boy,” his tone was low – intense. “I rather think that _you_ will have to be the one to take _me_.”

Crowley recoiled yet again, confusion washed across his features. “Me? How the fuck could I take you to Hell?”

Aziraphale sighed and closed his eyes for a moment yet again, hating every single flicker of pain that he felt coming from the other side of the room, hating every time he needed to dredge his courage together _again_. But – he was _not_ going to be the frightened little angel that Gabriel thought he was, he was not. He was going to be strong for himself, strong for Crowley, and _he was going to get them both out of this mess_.

He edged forward a little, stopping as he noted Crowley leaning away from him, and took another breath. “Crowley… I’m sorry. I didn’t put any of this in my letter to you because, well, to be honest, I just didn’t know how to tell you – and that scared me.”

They stared at each other, a car passed by in the dark outside, a distant human shouted out to a friend.

Aziraphale took another breath, “My darling-”

“Darling?” Crowley’s voice was rough, _raw_ , in his interruption and Aziraphale swallowed the word back down again. Mistake.

“My _dear_ ,” he continued, fighting to keep the tremble out of his voice. “You need to be the one to take us into Hell, because, well, because…” another blink, another desperate wring of his hands. “Because, well, you are the one who is a _demon_.”

The silence was absolute, loaded and heavy, and, just at the point that Aziraphale was wondering if he needed to repeat himself, Crowley exploded. With astonishing violence he withdrew, scrambling backwards, tripping over himself and the books and the chairs and the tables in his haste to escape the truths suddenly confronting him, clattering into the coat rack and sending knick-knacks flying as he attempted to flee. “What?!” he was short of breath, his eyes wide as they flicked over his shoulder at the rooted angel. “ _Liar!_ What do you even think you mean?”

Aziraphale vibrated on his spot, wringing his hands, keeping his distance, his expression wretched. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I should have told you. I should have told you sooner, been so much braver, but you know, you said it yourself, you _know_ you’re not an angel!”

“No,” Crowley whirled around to fix Aziraphale with his furious glare, shaking his head as he backed towards the doors, panicked denial etched through every plane of his features. “No, I’m _not_ a demon, I’m _not_! I _am_ an angel, a fucking _angel_! Don’t you dare try and take that from me!”

Aziraphale felt a thrill of fear run through him; he had always known that the truth would not be easily accepted, but even so, he hadn’t expected Crowley’s reaction to be quite so… horrified. And, the nearer his panic took him towards the doors, the more his own was starting to spike. The one unshakable truth he had learned through each of their six thousand years together was this: they were stronger together, always stronger together – there was no way around that.

Crowley, meanwhile, was still gravitating towards the exit. “No…” he was shaking his head desperately. “I’m not. I’m not! I’m not – _that!_ Gabriel would have _told_ me if I was a demon, he would have relished telling me that. You’re lying to me, now. _Again_. You’re _lying to me! WHY?_ ”

Unable to stop himself from reaching forward yet again, and yet again needing to draw back at the obvious fear his actions provoked, Aziraphale desperately wound his fingers together. “Crowley, I am _not._ I’m so sorry, dear boy, I should have been straight with you from the start. Anathema _told_ me to be, but I had heard what you said though, about demons, and I couldn’t be the one who-” he stuttered to a pained halt as Crowley, brutally triumphant, nodded at him.

“You couldn’t be the one to tell me how repugnant I was? How evil and vile and wrong? How _unnatural_?” he shook his head. “I might not be a _proper_ angel, not like you and Gabriel, but I am none of those things! I’m not a demon, I’m not evil – I’m not!”

“No, I know, I know! Of course you’re not!”

Crowley stopped then, so suddenly it was like he’d hit a wall and for an awful second, Aziraphale thought that Gabriel had turned up and frozen him, but then something washed across his face, a dreadful, hopeless sorrow as all of the anger washed out of him. “But do you honestly think that I’ve ever lived a day of my life without feeling all of that?”

The words flew like a spear and they landed plum in the angel’s chest, Aziraphale’s eyes widened in horror and desperate pity.

Maybe it was that reaction that proved to be the final straw for Crowley, maybe seeing that awful awareness wash through the angel’s eyes was the shove that saw him plummeting over the edge once more. Whatever it was, he just snapped, pulling at his hair in shaking fingers and turning, heading straight for the doors.

“No!” Aziraphale yelled but it seemed that Bookshop reacted quicker as, for the first time in their two-hundred-year-old-history, the doors slammed on Crowley, locked on him, sealing him inside with a terrified Aziraphale. He grabbed the handles in white-knuckled fingers and rattled them frantically, eyes, wide and fearful, flicking over his shoulder at the angel. “What have you done?” he gasped, “What have you done _now_?”

Aziraphale shook his head, his expression almost comically confused. “I haven’t…” he stuttered. “I _wouldn’t._ ”

“Let me out!” Crowley shook the doors with enough violence that Aziraphale could feel his panicked desperation leeching across the room. “Let me out of here, _now_!”

“Crowley, dearest,” the angel was flapping, unable to deal with the terrified anger that was washing his way. “I don’t-”

“Let me out!” Crowley turned then, his back to the door, his eyes wide and cornered, “Let me out,” he pleaded, “Please, _please_ , let me out!”

“I… I…” Aziraphale edged closer, his hands up, desperately trying to calm his panicked demon. Crowley couldn’t leave, _he couldn’t_ – they were always stronger together.

“Let me out!”

“It’s not me, but please, my dear, please… Why don’t we-”

Crowley whirled away as Aziraphale approached him and the hurt stabbed through the angel like the sharpest of knives.

“Keep away from me!” Crowley was back to shaking the doors, swallowed in the midst of true panic, breath coming short and pained. “I need to get out! I need… I need…” he tugged, frantically, at the neckline of his t-shirt.

Aziraphale stared in helpless horror, never had he seen Crowley so consumed in terror, never. He tried to reach out then to use his Grace to forcibly inject some calm – a dirty trick, but a necessary evil at this stage of the game – but, as ever, Crowley was just too fast for him. Raising his clenched fists to the sky, he roared in pain and terror, grief and frustration – and then simply vanished from the shop leaving a stunned and blinking Aziraphale in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, another twist hits our heroes, but without twists, there would be no plot to speak of :) A resolution is coming though, very, very soon... :) Update Wednesday. Thanks, as always, for reading!


	19. How Could This Have Happened?

“Crowley!” he’d gone, the shop was silent, and he’d gone, but still Aziraphale spun on the spot, eyes wide, heart thudding in panic. No… how could this have happened? No, no, no… Not now, how could it be now? Gabriel would be back at any moment and Aziraphale knew that, this time, his discorporation would be fast and decisive – the Archangel would not succumb to theatrics a second time – he needed to leave, he needed to not be here _now_. But then – how could he leave without Crowley?

For vital moments, he stood, hands clasped at his side, eyes closed, forcing his mind to try and come up with something at least halfway useful. There was one only thought, though, one possible way forward, and not a new one at that. Aziraphale had already entertained this, already considered it and dismissed it before as pointless, futile… but now, well, pointless and futile seemed to be all he had left.

He opened his eyes and forced himself into motion. Taking a deep, determined breath and trying not to think about what had happened the last time he’d tried this, Aziraphale rolled up the threadbare carpet, revealing the chalked circle below and the passages from the Cabala. Hurriedly, but making sure that nothing flammable was anywhere close by (lessons had to have been learned), he lit seven tea lights, placing each in a key point around the circle, deciding to forgo the incense, on this occasion, in deference to the urgency. Another breath, then another, steeling himself, preparing himself and then, for the first time in almost six years, he stepped into the circle and said the Words.

Just as before, nothing happened.

He waited… waited… swore softly under his breath, and said the Words again.

Again, there was nothing but silence and stillness. Aziraphale waited again, forced himself to count to fifty, and then spoke the Words once more, making sure that he enounced them all so very clearly.

Still nothing. No light, no voice, not even an engaged tone – just a huge, fat, nothing.

Taking in a breath that sounded far more like a sob, Aziraphale steadied himself and tried again, this had to work, it just had to. Closing his eyes he waited, crossing his fingers, holding his breath, hoping, wishing, beseeching… but again, there was nothing.

Well.

He waited another minute just in case.

Another minute.

One final one.

That was that, then.

He stepped out of the circle, stomach twisting, eyes blinking madly. He’d always known that it was going to be the longest of long shots, but yes – it seemed that he was, as he had always suspected, _persona non grata_ in Heaven. _Bête noire._ Bad news. Undesirable number one. An outcast. Well, at least his attempts to contact the Almighty hadn’t ended up quite as disastrously as before, he really wasn’t sure that his poor bookshop could cope with being burnt down for a third time, and so that had to be counted as a win, didn’t it? Especially in this time when he was losing everything else so quickly.

Mind spinning once more, searching for solutions where solutions did not exist, he rolled the carpet back, and tugged his waistcoat into place. It appeared that no one else was going to help him and so there was only one person left in the entirety of existence that could – he would just have to manage it all on his own. He stood, thought, determined and then marched resolutely along the stacks, climbing up onto a stool and sliding books from the highest of his shelves. _The Clavicule of Solomon, The Book of Shadows, The Magus, The Fourth Book of Occult Philosophy…_ He knew what he needed to find, he’d seen them before, knew where they would be, it would just take a little while to get everything set up the way he needed. He just desperately hoped that time was something he had enough of.

He ran his eyes and his fingertips over his books, cataloguing the wants in his head as he did so. He needed a spell of summoning, another of binding. One to force a change of state would be very useful if Crowley were to prove a reluctant partner in this caper. Yet another to hide his own angelic status would be helpful as well… but, then, time was of the essence and maybe he’d be better off just sticking with the essentials?

Yes, summon and bind – and then run.

A queasy sense of unease ran through him at what he was considering. He was really going to do this? He was really going to treat his dearest friend in this manner?

He was though, there was no room for any doubt about that. He would force Crowley into safety and then, when the smoke had cleared, well, he would deal with the fallout then. But then, they at least would both (hopefully) be around to endure that fallout.

A thumping at the door startled him into dropping one the books onto the floor and he coughed through the cloud of dust it produced. For a split second, his heart soared thinking, perhaps, that Crowley had returned, but then he realised that his demon would never have knocked, and so, no matter how rudely his visitor was hammering, it certainly wasn’t Crowley. A sliver of fear ran down his spine then, and he couldn’t help looking furtively over his shoulder, half expecting that it would be Gabriel himself hammering away at the door, waiting for Aziraphale to allow him access so that he could stroll in with a smug mile stretched over his face and discorporation in his fingertips.

But no, again, that was a stupid thought; Gabriel wouldn’t knock, he’d probably just raze the entire shop to the ground.

Not Crowley, not Gabriel or anyone else from Above; it had to be a customer, he concluded. Turning his back to the door and his attention to his books, he did his best to ignore the disruption – they would get fed up and leave, he knew. He just hoped that they would do it before Gabriel and the forces of Heaven came back for him.

So… where to start? He decided with _The Magus_ , crossing to his desk, placing it warily onto his bookstand to protect its aged spine, he opened it up, scanning through the list of chapters, considering where best to start. He’d just settled on Chapter Seven as being the most promising, just turned to the right page, when the pounding on the door started up again, louder this time, and enough to prickle irritation up and down his spine. “Go away!” he shouted, his nerves bleeding out into a snap. “We are most definitely closed!”

“Aziraphale!”

Oh no.

As if his life wasn’t precarious enough at this moment in time, the angel closed his eyes in frustration at that voice.

“Let me in, Aziraphale! I’m not going anywhere until you do, you know! Not now I know that you’re hiding yourself away in there! Let me in or I’ll just stay right here and make a complete spectacle of myself.”

Aziraphale counted to ten, and then to twenty, but none of that helped, and Gabriel was coming, how would it go if Gabriel were to arrive and find that he had a visitor camped right outside his shop? “Oh, for _goodness_ sake!” he pushed back his chair in a pique of temper, and strode to the doors, resolving on opening them just the tiniest crack, just enough to send his irritatingly stubborn friend on her way with a flea in her ear – and safety on her side.

He gestured, waspishly, in the direction of the hammering and reached out to place his hand on the handles. He was, however, forced to recoil violently as the antique wooden doors sprung open in his face. “What-” he stepped back, startled, as his personal space was abruptly crammed with a very irate and decidedly intimidating American witch.

“What do you think you have been playing at?” Anathema seethed, bustling past him and into the main body of the shop, and, as if the situation wasn’t quite bad enough as it stood, Aziraphale watched, open-mouthed, as Newton, pushing a sleeping Iris in her buggy, sidled in after her, his demeanour very much suggesting that he was a decidedly unwelcome participant in this early-morning raid on Aziraphale’s shop. “Why haven’t you answered any of my calls?”

A pointed finger with purple-painted nails poked, painfully, into his sternum.

“Why haven’t you let me know that you are still alive?”

A spark of guilt fizzled into existence in his belly.

“Why do you have to be so God-damned _stubborn_ about all of this?!”

Aziraphale felt that that was actually a very fair question that he could pose to Anathema as well, not that he would ever dare when she was in a mood like this one, however.

Instead, he swallowed down his mounting panic and irritation and re-locked the doors behind them all, turning to her, his fingers writhing, his face beseeching. “Anathema, my dear, I am so sorry to have worried you, so sorry indeed, but the thing is,” he really didn’t have the time for this, “the thing is, that I am in the most dreadful danger, and now, by association, are you.” He glanced at Newt and Iris. “ _All_ of you. So please, please, I never wanted to imperil you all, and so you _really must go_.”

Anathema’s expression darkened, hardened, set, and Aziraphale’s heart sank. “Danger?” there was a worryingly deep crease across her forehead. “Danger from who?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Well, Gabriel of course!” his hands were wringing harder. “He has lost patience with his own games and is determined to destroy me. So, please, you must leave, you really must!”

Neither of the adults in the room looked as if they were planning on leaving at all, though. In fact, neither human appeared even the slightest bit moved by his entreaty, instead, they just shared a loaded glance and Anathema shook her head. “Leave? You really think that we’re going to leave you to face this on your own?”

Aziraphale blinked at them, and then he blinked again, and then he felt the anger surge up inside him. “My dear, _please_! I am not joking here!”

“Neither am I. Have you spoken to Crowley?”

Her bluntness stole just the edge off his anger. “Well… yes. I have, actually. But-”

“And you’ve told him? Finally? All of the truth?”

Aziraphale turned back to his books, his ears flushing in shame. “Yes.”

“And?”

He whirled back to her, “And? Well, he ran from me! _Vanished_ actually! Disappeared from right underneath my nose. He doesn’t believe me, either, thinks I’m back to trying to manipulate him by telling him lies about his true nature – so yes, thanks for that advice. Totally useless, as well I knew.”

The misery of the situation was bringing his bitchy-bastard-streak out in force, but Anathema wasn’t in the slightest bit fazed. “He vanished?” her forehead creases deepened in thought before her eyes lit up, “But that’s wonderful, isn’t it? It means that he must have his powers back!”

Aziraphale deflated once more and returned to perusing his grimoire, “I doubt he ever lost them, my dear,” he offered quietly, “I just don’t think that he knew they were there.”

There was a silence at that, and then a quiet, “Well…”

That was what Aziraphale had thought too; all of those years of being helpless and vulnerable under Gabriel’s manoeuvring, and the means to escape had been hidden inside him all along. It was the cruellest form of irony.

She rallied quickly, though. “So, what’s the plan then? You obviously have one,” she leaned over his shoulder as Aziraphale desperately raised a shoulder, trying to hide his research from her. It was a completely lost cause, however, she was far too sharp for that and, as he frantically attempted to shuffle his notes over the incriminating text on his desk, he heard the tersely indrawn breath and jumped as she slapped her hand over a rapidly turning page. “You’re going to _summon_ him? Summon and then _bind_ him?”

Aziraphale flushed again, but his eyes didn’t stray from his research.

“Aziraphale… are you sure about that? Don’t you understand how… _discourteous_ that is?”

Discourteous? _Discourteous_? Closing his eyes, Aziraphale did his best to swallow down the desperation that was threatening to swallow him whole. They were about to be enslaved and possibly tortured for the rest of their immortal lives: offending Crowley’s sensibilities really was a small price to pay to avoid that. He took a breath and forced everything down inside him. She was trying to help; she was a dear friend and was only trying to help – but she really did not need to be here.

“Anathema,” he whirled around, startling her and held her eyes for a moment, before shifting his gaze to her silent partner and back. “Newton. Please, _please_ listen to me, here.” They blinked at him, even Anathema’s questions stolen by the gravity in his tone. “Gabriel is a very powerful angel. He is an Archangel. He is far more powerful than I could ever dream to be, and he has very much lost patience with both Crowley and me. He means to discorporate me and imprison me in Heaven until they decide when to completely destroy me,” he couldn’t even begin to try and explain Crowley’s probable fate, “and there is little I can do to avoid that. I need to find Crowley and we need to run and hide, fast enough and far enough that they will hopefully, never find us,” not that he had much expectation in that respect. “He isn’t here, I have no idea where he has gone to, and so I need to retrieve him before Gabriel finds us. My options here are _severely_ limited.”

The enormity of his words seemed to be appreciated.

“Gabriel will be coming here to collect me, and whilst he will discorporate me, he will _kill_ the two of you,” he glanced at the pushchair over by the door, “the _three_ of you, without thought. You need to leave. I have enough on my plate in trying to save Crowley and myself, I cannot deal with the added pressure of three more lives, and, to be honest, I doubt that there is anything I can do for any of us anyway.” It was dark, it was bleak, but Aziraphale felt that it was a fairly accurate assessment of where they all stood at the moment.

Anathema blinked at him, her dark eyes swimming with tears and he felt that she understood, too.

Her distress softened him slightly. “I know that you would like to help but honestly, _there is nothing you can do for Crowley and me,”_ he swallowed down his own mounting despair and pushed on. “But – you can save your husband, and you can save your daughter. If you leave now. And I _want_ you to. I _need_ you to. I need to be able to give everything I have to trying to save Crowley. Do you understand that?”

A single tear rolled down her cheek as Anathema shook her head, “Aziraphale, you are asking us to abandon you.”

She was so good, she really was such a good friend to him. Forcing himself to swallow down his fear, Aziraphale took her hand in his and smiled at her, “I’m asking you to save your lives so that I can think of you in future years and know that you are all safe. So that I can think of Iris and imagine the wonderful young lady she will become. That’s what I am asking you to do.”

“But you! But Crowley!”

“We are six thousand years old – we have had our time. How much time has Iris had?”

All eyes turned to the sleeping child in the pushchair.

“But,” this was Newton, his voice shaken and jagged. “There must be something we can do? We stopped the Apocalypse!”

“I can do this,” Aziraphale motioned to his books and his notes, the incantations they held, “and you can save your child.”

Silence fell.

Aziraphale and Anathema stared at each other, a thousand unspoken words passing between them and then, finally, she nodded, her expression pallid, her lips pressed tightly together, her fingers squeezing Aziraphale’s. “For Iris,” she whispered and Aziraphale nodded.

“For Iris.”

They hugged, quick and fierce, and Aziraphale had to clear his throat as he stepped back, nodding first at her and then at Newton.

“We’re sorry,” poor Newton looked desperate. “I hope that it all works out for you.”

Aziraphale forced another smile out from somewhere. “It will be fine, dear boy. Absolutely fine. Don’t you worry about me. I shall call you when Crowley and I are both safe.”

They nodded at each other again, and then Newt took the handle of the pushchair in one hand and Anathema’s fingers in the other and steered his family towards the door and safety – just as, with an ethereal shimmer, Gabriel materialised in the bookshop alongside them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this section is a little shorter than usual, but Sunday's is going to be a big one :) See you then!


	20. Making a Dreadful Situation Positively Appalling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two or three chapters (depending how I edit it) kind of run together as we reach the climax of the action. (Not the end of the story though - I need to make that happy ending worthwhile :) ) 
> 
> As such, they don't tidy up really neatly, although I am trying to avoid leaving any more cliffhangers. It was either this or no updates until the whole climax is written which would be at least another week. Hope you enjoy this bit!
> 
> ___
> 
> Warning - disablist language and opinions voiced by a character (who is a dick) about another character.
> 
> _______________________________________________________________

“You!”

For the second time in one day, Aziraphale’s back hit the spines of his books and his skull cracked into the ancient oak of a shelf. For the second time in one day, his powers were blocked, his words and movements stolen, and he was forced to look down upon a furious Archangel Gabriel as he seethed and paced around his bookshop. However, for the first time in a very long time, Aziraphale was suddenly, chillingly, terrified for the lives of someone who was not himself or Crowley.

“How do you manage to be such a royal pain in my ass?! Hey?”

Aziraphale just stared at him, too terrified to even glance the way of Anathema and her family as they cowered by the doors, hoping, with everything he was, that they would just stay still and quiet whilst Gabriel did what he’d come here to do. Hoping that Gabriel would not see them, that they would be free to leave, that Aziraphale’s poor choices would not rob three wonderful humans of their chances in life.

“You know what happens now, right? Even an angel as stupid as you must be able to work that one out for yourself, yeah?” He shook his head, raised a finger Aziraphale’s way and despite himself, the angel felt his purely decorative heart start to pound in his chest, but then he paused, turning slightly to the left and noticing the two cowering humans for the first time. “Oh… for fuck’s sake…” He rolled his eyes so far back that Aziraphale hoped they’d get stuck. “Go on, get out then,” he spat at them making Newton recoil into a standard lamp, “I haven’t any time for humans today.”

Thankfully, _mercifully_ , it seemed that Anathema and Newton did not have to be told twice. A very real fear for their daughter’s life had kicked in, and, like every parent the world over, there wasn’t anything they wouldn’t do to ensure that she was safe. Flicking a guilt-ridden glance Aziraphale’s way, they both turned for the door, they both set their eyes on their way out, they both took one, single step towards freedom and then…

“Hang on a second here…”

Aziraphale’s stomach twisted in fresh terror.

“Don’t I know you two clowns? Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

Newt stared at the floor, Anathema raised her eyes to the Archangel before her and, unlike that day at Tadfield Airbase, Aziraphale saw absolute, pure terror in there. Neither of them said a word.

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “I have, haven’t I?” he cocked his head at them, his violet eyes scanning them up and down and then, abruptly, he snapped his fingers, sending dread flooding through Aziraphale, but there was no miracle attached to the action, only a memory. “That airstrip! With this chump and the demon! You were there, weren’t you? Both of you!” He shook his head. “Consorting. That’s what you were doing, right? Interfering in your own, irritatingly human manner in the Day of Reckoning that I had been counting on!”

It was hard to imagine, but seeing Anathema and Newton in the bookshop actually seemed to stoke Gabriel’s anger even higher than Aziraphale already had.

“Well,” he glared at them both, his eyes flashing almost mauve. “If you’ve decided to throw your lot in with losers like this sorry excuse for an angel, then you’ll get just exactly what you deserve.”

Aziraphale’s heart twisted as, without warning or fanfare, both Anathema and Newton suddenly found themselves flying backwards through the air to crash, with twin thuds, into the bookshelves at his side. The pushchair stayed where it was, rocking slightly from the force of Newt’s hands being ripped from its handle, only inches from the door and safety whilst Iris, in merciful recognition of the early hour, only shuffled slightly, her hold on Mr. Bunny tightening, as she drifted obliviously through her dreams.

Aziraphale writhed desperately in the grip of Gabriel’s miracle. He’d never have imagined, when Crowley vanished from under his nose, that the situation could have deteriorated at all, never mind plummet so quickly and so thoroughly to depths it had.

Turning back to his three captives, Gabriel flicked a jolly smile at them. “Okay. Three idiots with one stone, yes? One miracle at any rate.” He lifted his hand, pressed his fingers together, ready to snap and held Aziraphale’s wide and panicked eyes, “See you on the flipside, dead-beat,” and then he pressed, his fingers sliding, his smile triumphant – only to morph it straight into a snarl as, with an angelic shiver, the Archangel Uriel materialised right at his side.

Gabriel froze in his snap, his countenance every inch the naughty child waiting to see if they’d been rumbled in their antics. There was a moment of silence as Uriel’s dark eyes flicked from Aziraphale to Anathema to Newton to Gabriel, who was staring at her with no attempt to conceal his irritation. She then glanced back at Aziraphale, looked right into his eyes and, Aziraphale knew that she felt, _saw,_ every single facet of his grief and terror at that moment.

“Uriel… What are you doing here?” and obviously, Gabriel was intent on having a temper tantrum over it all.

Uriel turned back to him then, her gaze appraising, her expression blank. “Gabriel,” Aziraphale was sure he could detect the censure in her tone, though and his heart began to hammer against his chest in cautious, cautious hope. “Me? What is it, exactly, that _you_ are doing here?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes once more and scrumpled his face into an expression of patronising confusion, holding his hands out, palms upwards, as he tried to face Uriel down. “You know what I’m doing, Uriel. Duh! I’m returning the traitor, Aziraphale,” he gestured to the pinned angel, “to Heaven for judgement.”

Nodding, her face blank, Uriel tilted her head to one side as she regarded him closely. “I thought that Michael had said that you were to leave him be?”

Another thrill of hope shot through Aziraphale at that.

“Huh,” Gabriel’s scoff was bitter and rancid. “And since when does Michael get to call all the shots, hey? Have things been turned into a dictatorship when I wasn’t looking? She’s no more in charge than you are.”

“She’s not,” Uriel agreed. “And it _is_ a dictatorship, remember. It always has been.”

Gabriel was back to screwing his face up. “Cute,” but Uriel’s eyes were skipping around the rest of the bookshop, sharp and determined, and Aziraphale uncomfortably felt that he knew what she was looking for.

“Where’s the demon?” she asked, levelling her gaze back towards a suddenly shifty-looking Gabriel.

“Demon?” Gabriel shrugged. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“The demon Crowley. Surely you cannot think that no one in Heaven has noticed what you have been doing down here with him for all these Earthly years?”

Like a stalking cat spotted by its prey, Gabriel stilled, whilst Aziraphale’s stomach painfully flipped. Poor Crowley; it seemed that he and Aziraphale were, _literally_ , the last supernatural beings in creation to become aware of Gabriel’s games.

Gabriel’s forced levity deserted him, and he leaned in a little, just the smallest amount, just enough, Aziraphale knew, to try and unsettle the unfortunate Uriel. “And what _have_ I been doing with him, then?”

Uriel held her ground, and she held Gabriel’s eyes. “Keeping him here. Trying to hide him from Heaven and Hell alike. Playing games with him. Deceiving him.”

A nonchalant shrug was her first answer, followed by an easy, “I’ve never tried to hide him from _anyone_. Would you have preferred it if I’d just destroyed him instead?”

“You know that Michael wouldn’t like that. You know what she said on the matter.”

Yet another thrill of hope.

“I know she’s not in charge.”

Despite his demeanour, Gabriel was getting rattled, Aziraphale could feel it. A rattled Archangel was once who was more liable to forget to keep one eye on his miracles, and all Aziraphale needed was that moment of opportunity and he would be able to get Anathema and her family out and to safety, he knew he would.

Uriel held her tongue as she and Gabriel continued to watch each other – Aziraphale was reminded of cagey cats, both wanting to defend their turf, both hoping to avoid an all-out fight. It was hard to work out Uriel’s motivation in all of the posturing, though. “Some feel that you have become obsessed by this demon. That you are planning on trying to get him to ascend once more.”

As Aziraphale’s body flooded with shock, Gabriel threw his head back and laughed, Uriel watching him with the same intensity as a hawk. Or maybe a great white shark. “ _Ascend_? No one ascends, Uriel. Certainly not the Serpent of Eden!” He fixed her with his unsettling eyes once more, “And are _you_ one of those stupid enough to think such a thing, Archangel Uriel?”

It was clear to Aziraphale, that Uriel was not going to rise to the baiting, not at all; she was obviously well-practised in dealing with a Gabriel like this and he watched as her nose crumpled daintily as she thought. “But then, if you weren’t trying to make him rise to the ranks of the angels again, what _were_ you doing with him?”

Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat at that, it seemed to him that Uriel knew exactly what Gabriel had been doing during his visits to Earth, not that Gabriel himself was ever going to acknowledge it, of course.

“Michael seems to think that working with the demons is the best way forward, doesn’t she?” Gabriel was aiming for nonchalance in his tone. “She said that we need to get to know more about them, understand how they work,” he shrugged. “What would be a better way to do that than to have a tame demon of our own, one we can study to our heart’s content?”

The indignation Aziraphale felt at that would have been enough to make him shudder – had he been able to move at all.

Uriel’s face remained expressionless. “As I said – some feel that your interest has become an _obsession_. That you would rather spend time with him than in Heaven.”

“Spend time with him?” Gabriel’s handsome face was creased in repulsion. “He is a _demon_. What kind of angel would ever want to spend time with a demon?” a glance fast as quicksilver, was thrown Aziraphale’s way. “No, this is purely research. He is a means to an end. Not only is he a good research subject,” Gabriel leaned in a little, trying to tempt Uriel with a little confidence, “but, we do this right and he could be a decent spy for us, too.”

Uriel raised her eyebrows at that. “If Beelzebub didn’t destroy him first, of course,” she offered flatty. Gabriel merely shrugged, and Uriel turned her attention back to Aziraphale, gesturing his way with a nod. “And that one?”

“I told you. A traitor to Heaven. Michael doesn’t want him destroying? She can think what to do with him, then.”

Uriel’s expressionless face then turned to Anathema and Newt and, following her gaze the best he could, Aziraphale was horrified at the tears that were streaking Anathema’s face, the terror that was ground into Newton’s. “And them?”

Gabriel shrugged again, his face crumpled up in scorn. “They helped ruin Armageddon… what would you have me do with them? Let them walk free?”

Aziraphale held his breath at that. Uriel had always been an enigma as far as he was concerned. Yes, she spouted the party lines, yes, she parroted whatever Michael or Gabriel had been saying, but Aziraphale had never really felt that she had the same _personal investment_ as the other Archangels, well, certainly not Gabriel and Sandalphon, who really seemed to enjoy the more _smitey_ aspects of an angel’s work. No, Uriel seemed to want to follow the will of Heaven because she really thought that it was the right thing to do. It sounded as though Michael had been giving this ineffable plan some serious thought in the years that Aziraphale had been excluded – perhaps Uriel had been as well?

He never got to find out though, never got that little glimpse into Uriel’s thoughts regarding whether Newt and Anathema should be allowed free passage or not as, with the appalling timing which had plagued him throughout, the doors of the bookshop flew inwards and, making a dreadful situation positively appalling, Crowley sauntered in.

The arrival seemed to take all the collected beings by surprise, although Crowley himself could not have looked less fazed by it all if he tried which, Aziraphale strongly suspected, he absolutely was. He’d only been absent from the bookshop for a couple of hours and so, outwardly, his appearance had changed very little. He was wearing the same clothes, still sporting the same array of injuries, his hair was still messy, but Aziraphale wondered if it wasn’t looking a little more _artful_ , like Crowley had gone to great efforts to appear put together when he really, really wasn’t. The reappearance of a pair of dark glasses only seemed to confirm that theory.

He strolled forward, the doors closing behind him but Aziraphale had no way of knowing if that had been Crowley himself or the bookshop who had done it. Aziraphale watched him closely, had six thousand years of experience in reading him and felt that that alone should help him figure out what this was, but, in this moment, Crowley was annoyingly unreadable to him. He was skilled, however, in knowing, from the turn of his head alone, what Crowley was looking at behind those impenetrable shades and he catalogued it all now. Iris. Newt. Anathema. Aziraphale. Uriel and, finally, back to Gabriel. He saw him pull himself up a little as well, push his shoulders back and knew that this was it: showtime.

Crowley was expressionless though, as was Gabriel, and Aziraphale’s heart thudded hard in his chest as he watched them both, knowing that, with a snap of his fingers at any moment he wished, Gabriel could just end it all. However, it did seem that, for now, that wasn’t the way he was planning on letting this work out. Not quite yet at any rate. Instead, he fixed an expression of gentle concern onto his features and opened his arms to Crowley, puppy dog eyes wide as he stepped forward. “Tom! Oh, you’re here! Oh, you have been such a worry to me when I couldn’t find you at the flat!” he moved in closer, enveloped an unresisting Crowley into a hug and holding him close, his eyes squeezing tight even as Crowley dropped his forehead onto a shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

The whispered apology turned Aziraphale’s stomach once more, and the smug little smile that Gabriel, eyes open once more, gave him over Crowley’s bent shoulders had his pulse thundering in his ears.

“Oh, hey, it’s okay,” Gabriel stroked down Crowley’s spine, ruffled the back of his artful hair and met Aziraphale’s eyes straight on. “It’s just that this, this _demon_ here… He told me that he’d _destroyed_ you, _completely_ destroyed you! He said that you’d come here to confront him and that he’d burnt you with Hellfire and I,” he gave a little pretend sob at that point and couldn’t resist throwing out a wink Aziraphale’s way. “Oh – it almost destroyed me too! I’m so glad you’re safe.”

He straightened up at that, holding Crowley at arm’s length with two hands on his shoulders at first, but then sliding one back into his hair and tugging his head up when Crowley had insisted on keeping his eyes fixed to the floor. “Hey – look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

Hatred swirled in Aziraphale, pushed against his bound powers in a desperate attempt to get _out._

Obediently, Crowley looked, and Gabriel graced him with an insincere smile. “That’s better. You didn’t come here earlier, did you? To this shop? To see this demon? After I’d ordered you to stay in the flat? You didn’t do that to me, _did you_?”

Crowley shook his head and Gabriel yanked at the hair in his fingers. “Words.”

“No. I didn’t.”

A slap rang out then, sharp and quick and Crowley’s head snapped to the side before righting itself, his expression still blank.

“More lies,” Gabriel whispered, caressing the red mark on the side of Crowley’s face with his fingertips. “When will you ever learn? I think more training is in store for you, but for now you can go and wait outside.” Gabriel dropped his hand and turned back to Aziraphale, all the satisfied gloating gone wiped from his expression in the face of Crowley’s token resistance. “After I get rid of this demon for good, we’ll head back and get started on that properly.”

“Do you need to?”

Gabriel had turned away, Crowley already dismissed and Aziraphale saw him physically startle at yet another show of defiance, despite the dressing down he’d just delivered. Aziraphale’s heart sank with the fresh wave of fear washing through him and he watched as Gabriel slowly turned back again, a tiger waiting to pounce, his violet eyes cold. “And why would you care?”

Crowley shrugged, “I don’t. Just – do you need to actually destroy him? We’re angels after all, aren’t we? Shouldn’t we be better than that?”

Gabriel cocked his head slightly and, for the briefest of moments, Aziraphale thought that he was going to correct him. The moment passed however, Uriel continued to observe in silence and Gabriel nodded, falsely earnest. “We are. But don’t ever confuse that with being weak. Or too scared to act. He will never stop threatening you – and as a result, he needs to be destroyed.”

He raised his fingers again, and again, Crowley spoke up. “And them? The humans? You’re destroying them too?” and Aziraphale could sense the very edges of Crowley’s veneer of calm starting to crumble, could taste the panic rising inside him.

Gabriel looked back again, his lips pressed together, his eyes narrowed. “Yes. And they have been corrupted by him – probably sold their souls already. Evil needs to be eradicated in _all_ of its forms: surely you understand that?”

Aziraphale could tell when Crowley flicked the slightest of glances Uriel’s way – but the other Archangel remained blank, bored even, and a dreadful suspicion slammed into Aziraphale’s chest: was Crowley trying to get Gabriel to Fall? If he was, then it wouldn’t happen – would _never_ happen, no angel had Fallen since the very last days of the Rebellion, it seemed to have very much gone out of favour. Surely Crowley must have known that?

Crowley nodded. “I suppose so,” he acquiesced. “But her?” tersely, he nodded at the silent pushchair in the corner of the room, “You think she’s sold her soul already, then?” and Aziraphale’s heart began to hammer harder in his chest, he couldn’t even bring himself to glance Anathema’s way.

For a moment, Gabriel looked completely confounded by Crowley’s question. Then he moved slightly, a step closer to the doorway, and leaned forward on his tip toes, peering into the buggy at the sleeping child within and then straightening up once more. “Well, probably not,” he conceded. “Though I don’t think that human children survive well without their parents to feed them, and so it would probably be best to let it die alongside them, don’t you think?” The iron fist around Aziraphale’s heart squeezed again and, next to him, he could sense Anathema straining against the miracle holding her in place. “And anyway,” Gabriel peered into the pushchair once more, “this one looks defective, so it’s probably a kindness to euthanise it nice and quickly, anyway.”

He was straightening up, smiling his stupid, oblivious smile Crowley’s way when Aziraphale felt the flash of anger explode around the room. It was impossible to tell, precisely, where it had come from, but it carried the dark edges of one of Crowley’s miracles and Aziraphale began to mirror Anathema in her desperate struggles. No, he absolutely could not, no. Crowley could absolutely not afford to lose his temper. If he did, then Aziraphale knew exactly where it would finish up: going up against Gabriel would see him destroyed in a single second.

It didn’t happen though, the hatred washed itself away leaving Gabriel with only the vaguest expression of confusion as he glanced around the room. Crowley himself slid his fingers into his pockets and let out a sigh, getting every eye in the room back on him, even Uriel’s disinterested ones. “Gabriel,” his voice was steady, his posture relaxed. “We may as well stop this whole charade now, shall we? I remember everything.”

Aziraphale startled, his pulse thundering in his ears.

Gabriel’s head snapped around.

Even Uriel lifted her gaze slightly.

He remembered? Everything? _Everything_?

“You remember?” Gabriel’s voice was low, careful. “Remember _what_ , exactly?”

Crowley shrugged, “Armageddon. The airbase. Eden. Shakespeare. Sodom. Edison. The flood. The Boer War,” his tone was perfectly controlled, perfectly neutral. “Falling. You want me to continue?”

Silence drifted through the shop, thick like honey, but choking, cloying.

Gabriel and Crowley looked at each other.

The silence stretched on; Gabriel tilted his head slightly, carefully. “You’re doing this, then? Really going for it? You obviously are, but I’m not entirely sure _why_. You must have realised that, if you no longer serve any use to me, then I will have to destroy you, too? Surely you’re not so stupid that you couldn’t work that one out?”

Crowley’s gaze didn’t waver, his face didn’t so much as twitch. “Who says I can’t be any use to you? I’m sure I have _plenty_ of uses that we can discuss, just as soon as you let them all go.”

Gabriel’s eyes opened wide at that, comically wide, and he threw an incredulous glance Uriel’s way before turning back to Crowley and laughing. “You think you’re going to cut a deal with me? _A deal_?” he threw his head back and laughed harder. “I am the Archangel Gabriel, the Messenger, the one who is over Paradise and the Cherubim _and the serpents_. I am _over them_ – I don’t make deals with them!”

Narrow shoulders shrugging, Crowley seemed unmoved. “Seems like the smart thing to do, though, really. Cut a deal, save the angel and the humans, and not risk a stain on your soul. You won’t like a stained soul, believe me. And you certainly wouldn’t like to Fall.”

Gabriel blinked at that, so forcefully that Aziraphale was surprised he couldn’t hear him. “You think that I will _Fall_? That there is anything in the whole of creation that would make _me_ Fall? Me? The Archangel Gabriel?!”

The books trembled on their shelves with his shout and Iris stirred in her pushchair, but again, Crowley didn’t twitch. “You know, I’m sure I remember Lucifer saying something just like that once…”

Pinned as he was, Aziraphale felt just the slightest slackening in the grip Gabriel had on him. Not enough to attempt anything useful, not yet at any rate, but enough to let him know that Gabriel was getting rattled, was losing his focus.

“I am _not_ Lucifer! I will not _Fall_!”

Crowley smiled. “You think? You reckon She holds you in high enough esteem for that then, do you? Killing a couple of humans, who _haven’t_ sold their souls to Satan by the way, and I would know. Killing a baby? A complete innocent? Just to what? Flex your muscles? You don’t think you’d Fall for that?”

Gabriel shook his head, “Never,” and Crowley nodded, considering.

“Okay. What about the angel then,” he nodded Aziraphale’s way. “How about you destroy him too? You think that would piss the Almighty off enough? You, wiping out one of her own in cold blood.”

“I do not intend to destroy the angel. I intend to send him back to Heaven to face censure. That’s all.”

Crowley leaned in, smiled a little and Aziraphale recognised six thousand years of temptations in that move and, quite frankly, it terrified him. “But could you?” he whispered. “Would you dare? Destroy an angel – send a message to all about what happens to those who cross the Archangel Gabriel. Those who doubt his strength.”

“Of course I could,” Gabriel hissed back. “Do _you_ doubt me?”

Crowley considered. “Of course I do. I don’t think you have the balls.”

Aziraphale caught the tiny glance that Crowley threw Uriel’s way, but Uriel barely even looked as though she was listening, and if she was, it seemed that the entire conversation was just boring her. He wasn’t entirely sure what game Crowley thought he was playing here, and he also wasn’t sure that the demon knew how very, very dangerous it was.

“You stupid punk!” Gabriel lashed out catching Crowley in the sternum and slamming him back a few paces, making his arms windmill in a desperate attempt to keep his feet. “Have you forgotten who I am? _Have you forgotten who you are?_ ” he laughed, bitter and cruel, “Not even the tattered threads of an angel that you _thought_ you were for all these sad, sad years! How did it feel then, when you finally worked it all out? When you realised that you hadn’t been a _proper_ angel for _millennia_? That you were already an outcast, already the lowest form of life imaginable? Already the very thing that you used to whimper and cry about not becoming!”

Gabriel laughed again as Aziraphale’s heart bled for Crowley, bled at the way that his lips pressed together and his chin lifted just a little.

“And you did whimper and cry,” he turned to Aziraphale then, addressed his wide and panicked eyes. “You wouldn’t have believed it, you know. How long have you known him? Since Eden?” he laughed again. “Did you ever guess how pathetic he was? How needy and tragic and pitiable?”

Crowley didn’t move a muscle, but a line of red flush started to creep through the bruising on his cheeks. “ _’Oh, Gabriel’_ ,” the voice was high and mocking, “ _’thank you for loving me. Thank you for staying with me. Thank you for fucking me when no one else ever would.’_ ”

Crowley’s flush deepened and Aziraphale squirmed inside with furious indignation. Yes, he’d known Crowley since Eden, but the Crowley he knew, the real one, was proud and private and self-sufficient, but so, so fragile underneath it all. Gabriel had no idea how much harm he was doing, here. Or maybe he did. In fact, he most certainly did as he seemed intent on heaping more misery on top of the portions already served.

“No self-respect,” he was back to taunting Crowley directly now. “No pride. Absolutely no dignity. How many times have you crawled on the floor at my feet? How many times have you begged and pleaded for a scrap of my attention?”

Crowley was crumbling, Aziraphale could see it and, if the manic gleam in his eye was anything to go by, so could Gabriel. Aziraphale tried his absolute best to project his thoughts straight into his friend’s mind, to project the love and the admiration he felt for him, his worth, his absolute golden worth… but he knew it wasn’t working.

Eyes dropping to the floor, Crowley stepped back, and Gabriel stepped in, heading for the kill. “You’d do it now, wouldn’t you? If I told you to? Strip yourself naked, roll around on the floor, position yourself for me, suck my cock, beg… anything to get just the tiniest little scrap of my attention. I wouldn’t even have to promise you anything. Not saving the angel, not saving the little reject-human over there. You’d just do it because,” he was right in Crowley’s space now, right up close and he leaned in, his lips next to the demon’s ear, a cruel mockery of a lover’s sweet-nothings as he leaned in and whispered, “that’s just how pathetic you are.”

Despite the block on his powers, Aziraphale felt the wave of worthless misery as it washed through Crowley and he felt his heart crack in two. No. No, no, no. How could Gabriel do this to him? Six years of hammering away at that same thread of trauma that had run through Crowley since the Fall. Hammering away at it, widening it, widening it – until Crowley was going to slip into the resulting chasm and be lost forever. And there was nothing that Aziraphale could do about it – not anymore.

His own anguish almost overwhelmed him. Anathema felt it for certain as her eyes whipped from her daughter to Aziraphale at her side, wide and worried. And Iris felt it too, it seemed. The sleep that she had clung to was shattered from her mind by the crashing despair of an angel with a breaking heart, and she awoke with a cry, long and loud and piercing. Every eye turned to her as she pressed her shoulders and heels into the pushchair, bucking against the straps and scrubbing a fist into her tired eyes. She flopped back then, wailing once more and opened her eyes, able only to see Uriel and Gabriel from where she was, both of them staring at her, neither of them familiar, and the wail quickly became a full on scream of panic.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Gabriel muttered and flicked a finger her way.

Aziraphale felt Anathema’s silent scream, Newt’s frantic struggles, his own utter disbelief that this could happen in his bookshop of all places – under his protection! Instantly, Iris’ cries cut off and Aziraphale stared in abject horror. She was still moving though, her little face was still scrumpled up in distress, her limbs thrashing, Mr. Bunny thrown from the pushchair in a temper. He’d only stolen her sounds, thank whoever was still listening to Aziraphale, he had only stolen her sounds.

Gabriel let out a long, dramatic sigh, turning back to Crowley with a bright smile. “Right. Where were we then?”

Crowley’s expression was wiped clean though, completely blank, and he was still, so very, very still. In all their years together, Aziraphale had never been more reminded of a snake when Crowley remained in human form: in all their years together, Aziraphale had never felt more frightened of him.

“Ah, yes,” Gabriel, however, didn’t seem to have noticed. “We were discussing how utterly wretched you were.”

Crowley’s expression didn’t flicker, not until one graceful eyebrow curled high above the frame of his glasses. “Were we?” his voice was back to liquid chocolate. “And here I was thinking that we were discussing how _you_ didn’t have the balls to kill a human child and an innocent angel, right here, right now.”

The smug satisfaction slid from Gabriel’s face, something ugly taking its place and he stepped in a little closer to Crowley, impinging on his personal space, but Crowley held his ground. “Innocent? He’s hardly innocent.”

Aziraphale watched, heart pounding, as Crowley’s head tipped ever so slightly to the side, considering. “No? You had a trial then? Or has there been a decree from Her? Even I got one of those, you needed to make sure that you were throwing the right angels off the edge of Heaven, yes? So all of us Fallen at least got a decree from the Boss.”

Silence.

“No decree? Hmm, interesting. So, who decides on innocent and guilty now then if not Her? You?” he laughed a little and flicked his eyes to the stoic Uriel. “You?”

Silence.

“What’s the story then, Gabriel?” He asked easily. “Who’s the boss now? Who gets to decide what goes down if the _real_ Boss is keeping quiet?” he smiled, the shape oozing across his face, dark and taunting and supercilious, “It’s Michael isn’t it?” he laughed then. “Oh, wait until she finds out what you’ve been doing down here, she is going to tan your backside for you…”

“She is not in charge!” Gabriel’s roar shook the lights in their sockets and dredged the occupants of the shop in a fine layer of plaster and dust. “We Archangels are equal! She has no say in how I spend my time!”

“Gabriel,” the warning from Uriel was low, and just seemed to stoke Gabriel’s wrath. “You need to take care, the serpent is baiting you.”

He was, that had been very clear to Aziraphale, but what he was actually hoping to achieve by said baiting was a lot murkier. He could tell from the pressing of Crowley’s lips, that he had not wanted that fact pointing out to Gabriel. He smiled though, pushed on through it, he wasn’t the original tempter for nothing. “You need to listen to that, do what you’re told.”

Gabriel’s eyes darkened, swimming in violet and the air around him crackled. Aziraphale desperately wanted to shout a warning to Crowley, Gabriel could destroy him with a thought, but he remained trapped and silent. “You have no idea who I am. No idea what I can do. I am beholden to no one.”

Crowley shrugged, leaned in a little, peered at Gabriel through his glasses. “Sure. Whatever you say.” He smiled wider, leaned further. “ _Messenger-boy_.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Aziraphale’s eyes opened wide as Uriel suddenly erupted into life, opening her mouth to say something that she never got the time to utter, instead, staring in horror as Gabriel spun away from Crowley, his eyes wild, his aura sparking and fizzing, raising his hand at the angel and the humans alike. “I am beholden to no one!” he shouted again, “Watch me!”

Aziraphale felt it coming, just like the day at the airfield, but this time Crowley was too far away to be able to throw himself up as a shield. The green flash left Gabriel’s palm, spreading out towards his captives even as both Crowley and Uriel reacted, Crowley flicking his wrist, a red spark dancing forwards, Uriel throwing her own palm out, golden light leaping forth. Aziraphale was trapped, pinned, helpless, like all of Gabriel’s intended victims and he watched, frozen as the three lights converged, shimmered into something else entirely and then abruptly changed direction, spinning through the still of the room and slamming into Gabriel’s chest.

Uriel’s mouth fell open as Gabriel suddenly stiffened. Aziraphale stared, watched as Gabriel’s own hand followed the light, crashing into his sternum, his expression one of utter surprise, his eyes flicking to the front of his suit, then to Crowley who was stood, poised, at his side, then to Uriel. He lifted a hand out to her then, and, her own eyes wide in shock, she returned the gesture, rushing forwards but not quite fast enough to get there before his entire corporation simply shimmered – and vanished.

Aziraphale fell from his pinioned place in the stacks, Anathema and Newton following suit. The bubble of silence which had surrounded Iris vanished, and her distressed wailing suddenly filled the quiet of the shop, her parents almost tripping over themselves and each other in their haste to get to her side.

Aziraphale only had eyes for Crowley, though. Crowley, who shook his hand out and turned to Uriel as Uriel spun on him. Uriel, with fire in her eyes and obvious vengeance in her fingertips. She advanced on him and raised her hand and Crowley simply stared at her, lifting his chin, holding her hostile glare with the blank faces of his glasses – brave until the very last, as always.

Not that Aziraphale was going to let this be his last though, not on his watch, _not ever_. Without thought, he simply shimmered through space, projecting himself to stand between the furious Archangel and the demon, his wings spread, their snowy bulk sheltering Crowley from harm. “You _will not_ touch him,” he warned, low and steady and so very deadly serious.

Uriel narrowed her eyes at him, “What did he do?” she whispered and Aziraphale could hear the fear in it. “What did he do to Gabriel?”

“Tried to send him to Hell,” for once, Aziraphale knew more about what was going on than the other beings in the room and it gave him a novel rush of power. “Whilst you, I am guessing, tried to send him back to Heaven before he damned his soul with the cold-blooded murder of a human child, am I right?” He had to glance at the humans then, had to make sure that none of Gabriel’s deadly miracle had reached any of them, but they seemed as well as could be expected, huddled together in the corner of the room, both of the adults holding Iris between them, Anathema’s red-rimmed but steady eyes meeting Aziraphale’s in the centre of the room.

Looking back to Uriel, her shame-faced silence was answer enough, and Aziraphale briefly wondered where that compassion for a fellow-angel was when angels like Crowley were being pitched into Hell. “I thought so. That confusion of miracles will have sent him randomly elsewhere, on Earth probably, but you never know. It was what he did to Crowley.” Aziraphale couldn’t resist that, couldn’t resist pointing out to Uriel that none of this mess had been of Crowley’s making, none of it. “If you’re quick, you might be able to track him down before someone else takes advantage of him.” The bitterness was impossible to hide, but his words seemed to absorb some of her anger and the twinge of her shame deepened.

“You should never have let him run around unchecked as he did,” Aziraphale had almost lost everyone again this day. If that was not going to make him brave enough to finally stand up to Heaven, then nothing ever would. “The things that he’s done, the things that he’s said, in Her name as well,” and it still choked Aziraphale to even think of it all. He might have many, many issues with Heaven, but the Almighty still had a home in his heart and his soul, and She always would do. “From what I heard earlier, I can’t believe that Michael would have agreed with any of that. Or you, my dear.”

Uriel softened then, just a little. The light of fury and vengeance vanished from her eyes and she held Aziraphale’s with her own, thinking, obviously thinking. Then, she nodded. It was the tiniest of gestures, but it still flooded Aziraphale with a warmth he couldn’t quite start to identify. A warmth that had been absent these long, lonely, six years. She spared a single glance at the huddled humans, and Aziraphale startled at the shimmer of a miracle he felt and then, before he could ask, she simply stated, “I need to find him,” and then she vanished.

“What did she do?” it seemed that Anathema’s panic had been floating very near to the surface. “I felt something! What did she do? What did she _do_?!” she was checking Iris over, checking Newton, panicked and desperate, the tears standing in her eyes once more.

Aziraphale folded his wings away and bustled over, reaching for her shaking hands as they butterflied over her family. “It’s okay, dear,” he soothed. “They’re okay, they’re both okay. She just blessed them a little, that’s all, softened the trauma, blurred the memories,” Newt blinked at him then, the confusion in his eyes adding weight to Aziraphale’s surmising.

Anathema whirled on him, “So, why didn’t she do that to me, too?”

Leaning in to press a kiss on Iris’ messy hair, just needing that touch himself, Aziraphale gripped her fingers even more firmly in his own. “I’m sure that she tried. It just probably didn’t take. You are, after all, a little…”

“Witchy,” Newton filled in, his voice trembling slightly.

Aziraphale smiled slightly, “Quite so. Now,” he touched Newton then, checked him over for himself, then Iris once more, then turned to Anathema, knowing that, as brave as she was, this would never be easy for her to deal with. “I can try again?” he offered gently. “I can perform another blessing or maybe-”

“No,” the steadiness of her voice surprised him. “I’m fine. I need you to leave everything about me just as it is.”

There was a noise then, from the other side of the shop, the slight scraping of a chair leg on the floor and Aziraphale’s attention leapt away from the humans and back to the demon standing still and silent against the far wall. He’d kept Crowley in his peripheral view the entire time, knowing that he was unhurt, but not trusting that he wouldn’t just try and flee once more. He watched as he folded his arms across his chest, a screaming tell for how uncomfortable he was and then felt his heart leap into his mouth as Anathema untangled herself from the tight knot of humans in the corner and silently crossed the room to stand in front of him. The urge to fling himself across the room and stand between them with his wings out was almost impossible to resist, but he swallowed it down, desperately fumbling his fingers together instead and allowing himself to creep just that little bit closer to them both.

Anathema stared at him for a moment, weighing him up, her head tilted to one side and Crowley looked back at her, his glasses in place, his expression blank. “You deliberately used my daughter to bait Gabriel, didn’t you? You tried to goad him into striking at her.”

Aziraphale crept a tiny bit closer again as he watched Crowley nod and swallow. “Yeah, I needed Uriel to intervene. She wouldn’t have done that for either of you two. Only the child. And maybe the angel.” Aziraphale felt that strange warmth once more – would Uriel have intervened for him? To save his life? He actually doubted it. 

There was a pause as Anathema thought that through. “You needed him to try and kill her?” she queried.

Crowley tipped his chin up. “Yes. He was going to do it anyway. If I knew when it was coming, then I had a tiny chance of being able to do what I did.”

“You couldn’t have tried to save her, instead?”

Holding her eyes, Crowley’s voice was low, steady, “I did save her.”

Aziraphale couldn’t stay out of it any longer. “He did, my dear, he saved us all,” he glanced Crowley’s way, but Crowley kept his eyes fixed on Anathema.

“It was the only way,” Crowley continued. “I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.”

The moment stretched out, behind them all, Newt, still holding Iris against him, shuffled slightly, Aziraphale fidgeted, tugging at his sleeves and his waistcoat, but Anathema and Crowley were motionless, weighing each other up. “You would have sacrificed her to save us?” and a muscle jumped in Crowley’s cheek.

“Never.”

Aziraphale was almost expiring through anxiety, if Anathema felt that Crowley had done any less than his absolute best here, if she thought he’d taken risks with her daughter when there had been any other way at all in which they could have escaped, well, Aziraphale was not going to stand for that.

She nodded then, though and leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thin and taut. “For saving her when I couldn’t.”  
  
Crowley nodded, silent, his cheeks washed in red.

“I will owe you a debt for the rest of my life.”

He shook his head at that. “No debt. None,” but Aziraphale could see that she wasn’t to be shifted. She nodded back, determined, and then turned to Aziraphale at her side.

“I’d like to go home, now. If you could? I don’t know if any of us are up to getting the train back…” and Aziraphale flew into action.

“Of course my dear, of course, here, let’s get you all sorted, shall we? Are you going to put Iris back in her pushchair? That might be an idea. There look, now all stand really close, that’s it, and Newton, dear fellow, it might be an idea if you look down. Do you remember, the last time we did this, you were quite sick afterwards…”

The humans let him fuss them into position and he and Anathema shared a hug, before he gave them one last smile and, with Anathema mouthing another, ‘thank you’, at the still and silent Crowley, Aziraphale sent them all home again.

The bookshop instantly slid into silence, the ticking of the old clock in the corner the only thing to be heard even as the morning rush of London carried on around then. Aziraphale stood, his eyes on the empty space where his friends had been standing and took a breath before turning and striding straight into Crowley’s space, sliding his arms around him, folding him into a hug, feeling Crowley stiff and almost vibrating with tension against him.

“That was incredible,” he whispered, leaning back, his hands gripping taut biceps. “You saved us all when there should never have been a way out.”

Crowley shrugged, his eyes fixed on the buttons on the front of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “It was a risk, but it was all I had.”

Aziraphale looked at him, his heart twisting in pain inside his chest. “It was so very clever of you,” he whispered, “and so, very, very brave…” those hidden eyes jumped up to Aziraphale’s own, “…when it was all such a lie.” He watched the muscle twitch in Crowley’s cheek once more. “You still don’t remember a thing, do you?”

The clock ticked away in the corner of the room, Crowley’s eyes slid off to the side and Aziraphale watched as he forced himself to lean against the bookshelf behind him, fingers tucked into his pockets, pose studiously relaxed. He took in a long breath, let it out, and with it, a single word.

“No.”

Aziraphale’s heart sank. He’d known of course, well, strongly suspected at any rate. He’d felt that, _somehow_ , he would have known if Crowley’s memories had returned. Just like how Crowley knew when Aziraphale needed him, Aziraphale felt he would have known if he’d had his own, familiar version of Crowley back. Not that this version of Crowley was in any way inferior, of course not, they’d had too many narrow escapes for that to be a problem, but still, it would have been nice. He slumped against the edge of a table, the grief of still being alone in his history, the grief of knowing that his access to Heaven had been revoked, the confusion of Uriel’s mixed messages, all weighed heavily on him. His eyes drifted to Crowley as he flattened himself against the bookshelves and tried to appear nonchalant and his grief turned to shame; how could he mope here feeling sorry for himself and his losses when Crowley was still here and still hopelessly adrift in a life he didn’t even understand?

He pushed up, heading for the back room and snagged Crowley’s wrist, as casually as he could, as he passed by. “I need a drink,” he murmured as explanation, relieved that Crowley tagged along behind him, “I don’t know about you...”

~~**~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, not out of the woods yet, but the trees are thinning! :)


	21. The Truth Was the Most Precious Commodity There Was

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A relatively short one today - but again, Sunday's is a big one, in more ways than one :) 
> 
> __________________________________________________

It was barely ten A.M., but within minutes they were sat in the back of the shop, Crowley on the chair which had forced Aziraphale to take the couch, all of which made the situation of drinking whisky as the early morning rush hour petered out around them feel even more surreal. Aziraphale soldiered on though, he really had no other course of action available to him, the stress and uncertainty of the last few weeks had worn him too thin. They drank in silence, Crowley oddly stiff in his chair, Aziraphale oddly slumped against the cushions of the sofa until a sudden thought landed in Aziraphale’s head. “Oh, my dear boy,” he pushed himself up and dropped his whisky glass to the table. “You were hurt! I was going to heal you but, oh-” he stopped, drew up short, as something else struck him. “Oh, but I don’t need to though, do I? You can do it yourself now, can’t you?”

Crowley looked at him over the top of his glasses, offering the briefest glimpse of familiar yellow eyes and then he took a huge swallow of whisky and looked down at his boots, mumbling something inaudible towards the carpet.

Aziraphale tried to parse the sounds through his titanic vat of knowledge of Crowley and the inarticulation he employed when feeling out of his depth, but still drew a blank. He leaned in a little closer and tried again, “What was that, my dear?”

The snap of a sigh reached him first and then, eyes resolutely down, Crowley tried again. “I _said_ , I don’t remember how to.”

“Oh,” that was an alien concept for Aziraphale. He’d never ‘forgotten’ about his powers in the way that Crowley had; how on earth was he supposed to describe ‘remembering’ them all again? He thought. “Well, you’ve performed some pretty large miracles right here in this bookshop. How did you do those? Can you remember how it felt?”

Crowley kept his eyes on his feet. “It wasn’t a conscious thing,” it sounded as though every word were being dragged from his soul. “I just wanted something – and so it happened.”

Aziraphale shrugged, “That’s kind of how it works, my dear,” he leaned in a little closer, trying to see some of Crowley’s expression. “There are no fancy incantations or wand-work, you just imagine everything the way you’d like it and, well, it just happens.”

There was a silence at that, and Aziraphale watched as Crowley closed his eyes but there was no accompanying shiver of occult energy, the bruising on Crowley’s face didn’t lift and, within a minute he was opening his eyes again, a snapped, “I told you, it doesn’t work!” thrown out into the room.

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale was doing his best to soothe. “I imagine that you are worn down, my dear. You have performed two very large miracles already this morning, it is bound to take it out of you. Perhaps you would feel better after a nap?” Crowley’s face twisted like bitter milk. “Or, well, I can very easily just take care of it all for you? In the blink of a lamb’s eye, so they say. Here, let me-” he leaned even further in, lifted a hand, palm down, towards Crowley and then was forced to whip it back in again as Crowley abruptly shifted away.

“No,” it was sharp, jagged. “Leave it. I don’t need you to. It’s fine.”

“But,” Aziraphale was non-plussed, “it’s really no bother and I’m sure that I could make you feel far more comfortable in a jiffy and-”

“I said, no!” Crowley pushed out of his seat and paced to the window, staring out through the carefully accumulated grime at the street beyond, Aziraphale watching him, his chest heavy, his thoughts confused.

“Dear boy,” unseen, Aziraphale shook his head and wrung his hands. “I’m sorry,” and Crowley sighed, sagged.

“Don’t. Don’t be. I’m sorry too. What a fucking mess…” his voice dropped at that and Aziraphale longed to go and comfort him, but he knew any version of Crowley well enough to spot the ‘keep off the snake’ signs when they were up. Instead, he just leaned back in his seat again and watched his dearest friend and wished that he knew what to do to make any difference at all.

The silence wore on, the street outside quietened and the sun broke through the clouds for the first time that day. Aziraphale wondered how his humans were, wondered what, if anything, Iris would remember of the trauma of this morning. He thought of Uriel, wondered if she’d found Gabriel yet, wondered how forgiving Heaven would be with _him_ , and then Crowley spoke again. “I don’t know who you are.”

It was unexpected. And hurtful. And Aziraphale had no real idea how to respond to it.

Crowley turned and, even through the glasses, Aziraphale knew that he was looking at him. “I suppose, who _we_ are is what I really mean, it doesn’t make much sense to me.”

Aziraphale, mouth suddenly very dry, swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“Us. I can’t work it out.”

Deep in his chest, Aziraphale’s heart started pounding once more. “Us? In what way?”

Crowley took a step in. “Why do I always know when you are in trouble? Why do I always know where you are? Why does it bother me so much? Why do I _have_ to come? Absolutely _have to_? Why did you fight so hard for me? Risk so much to free me from Gabriel? To get me to see what I really was? Why did you stand between me and that other angel? Why would you protect me? Why would protecting a _demon_ mean so much to you? Who are we? _To each other?_ ”

It was a lot. It was such a lot, but there was one part of it that Aziraphale could not move past. “You are not just _a demon_ , Crowley, you are my friend.”

Crowley lifted his head a little, Aziraphale could imagine his eyes blinking in their uncommon manner under his glasses. “Your friend?”

Aziraphale nodded at him, “My _best_ friend.”

Silence slipped in alongside them once more. Aziraphale could feel the pounding of his heart against his ribs but he just could not work out where Crowley was coming from with this.

“Your _best_ friend,” he parroted, the pause was dangerous. “And that’s it? That’s all?”

Crowley was being so very careful, but Aziraphale still felt that he was being asked to handle shards of broken glass. They’d never done this before; they’d never actually addressed what they might be to each other. So, what to do? How to take this? The options were dizzying, extraordinary in their possibilities, but… he’d made a promise, hadn’t he? A solemn vow to never lie to Crowley again, to always tell him the absolute truth and nothing else. _Nothing else_. Not Aziraphale’s most treasured fantasies and hopes, not his dreams and his romantic ideals, no, _the truth_ , that was all. And for a being who had been so thoroughly and despicably lied to for so very long, the truth was surely the most precious commodity there was. Wasn’t it?

“Yes. That’s all.”

So why did it also feel like the World’s biggest betrayal?

Inscrutable as ever, Crowley turned back to the window and Aziraphale watched as his shoulders rose and fell through several deep breaths, and then he was back, a curving, sardonic smile creeping across his face. “Okay. Great. Well, that clears all that up then. Peachy.”

Aziraphale frowned, wondering if he’d ever heard Crowley say ‘peachy’ before.

“Now that we’ve got everything all straightened out, I may as well head off.”

“Head off?” Aziraphale was out of his seat, his voice ridiculously high, even before Crowley had completely finished with his last syllable. “Head off, _where_?”

Crowley shrugged, the gesture obviously designed to look cool in the half light of the back room, but the shadows and the gloom just accentuated the bruises marking his pale skin and it ended up coming off far more tragic. The smile was thin and brittle. “ _Off_ , you know. Things to do and all that.”

“Things?” Aziraphale was back to tugging at his waistcoat, his forehead creased, and his fingers clasped together. “Dear boy, no… I don’t think that you should. I think that you need to stay here for a while, for a bit, or something.”

Head angling to one side, Crowley watched him for a moment before asking, “Why?”

Aziraphale flushed. “Why? Well, I don’t know why! Just because! Why not, anyway? Can you say why you should _not_?”

He’d felt that that was a good counterpoint to Crowley’s, but really, he should have known better; who could possibly hope to outmanoeuvre the Serpent of Eden? Crowley’s smile widened, but there was still no depth to it, no warmth, it was a fragile and bitter thing. “Why not? Because we’re two _friends_ , aren’t we? That’s all. Nothing more. Why would we spend an empty day together like this? Let’s just decide to meet up next month and take in a football match or something, go to a pub quiz, you know? Like friends do.”

“Pub quiz?” Aziraphale was flailing, flapping around like a stranded fish.

“Sure. Why not? You free? A month on Friday?”

Aziraphale nodded then, even though he had no idea when ‘a month on Friday’ actually was.

Crowley nodded back, the smile threatening to split him in two. “Great, it’s a date then,” and then he blanched, all his layers of smooth falling away at once leaving him stripped and gaunt and battered and bruised. “Or not. _Definitely_ not,” and then he made a break for it, across the room and out of the doors before Aziraphale even had the wherewithal to consider stopping him.

He turned at the banging of the doors and stared, morosely, around his empty shop. “Traitor,” he told the Bookshop at large, even though he knew, in his heart, that she would never dare try and trap Crowley inside again, not after the way it had gone before. Then he stood and listened to the silence of his home.

The silence of his life.

The silence of his future.

The silence of an eternity without Crowley.

And he shook his head, “No.”

He tugged his waistcoat down, firmly, just the once, and repeated himself. “No. No, my dear, I am afraid that won’t do, it just won’t do,” and then he was off, out of the door himself, looking up and down the street and realising that Crowley was already out of his sight. He nodded again though, standing for a moment and thinking, before hurrying off down the road towards the river and the little flower shop where he’d first found him again after all their time apart.

~~**~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the immortal words of Douglas Adams: Don't Panic!   
> Aziraphale has got this completely under control....


	22. Their Own Side

The day wore on, darkness came, and went, and came again and still Aziraphale had not managed to catch up with his missing demon. He’d not been at the flower shop when Aziraphale had arrived there, or the flat above, or even the pub where they had spent a couple of very pleasant evenings getting to know each other again. Aziraphale had returned to the bookshop then, to see if he’d doubled back on himself, but there was no sign of him there either.

After that, he’d had to think a little wider, and had, instead, started searching around all the places that he knew Crowley _used_ to like, wondering if this out-of-step Crowley would gravitate to the same locations, the same _types_ of location, as before. He tried the British Museum, Kew, Camden Town, Madame Tussauds, Leicester Square and that tiny little Art House picture house which Crowley had always pretended he hated but visited far too much for that to be the case.

When they drew a blank, he realised that he needed to get a little more personal, even if it were a little more unlikely. The Mayfair flat first. Then the Bentley, in her luxurious underground car hotel. The bandstand. The number nineteen bus. St. James’ Park.

Nothing.

Sighing heavily, Aziraphale flopped onto a bench in the empty (closed) park and stared at the smooth, black waters, repeatedly kicking away the despair that circled him, desperate to get its nasty little teeth into his carefully cultivated hope. He had been, at most, three minutes behind Crowley when Crowley had left the bookshop; he refused to believe that that meant that Crowley would be able to hide himself so well as to never be found again in that scant window of time. He was here, he was close, and, very soon, Aziraphale tried to convince himself, he would find him again.

He just had to be smarter about it.

A single swan roused itself from its slumber to drift by on the glassy lake, no doubt wondering if the angel on the bench had any bread stuffed in his pockets, or his hat. Aziraphale barely saw it, however, was too busy puzzling it all out, forcing himself to be calm as he ran everything he knew about Crowley, old and new, through his consciousness, seeing if any of it toppled any dominoes.

There was nothing, though, there was nothing at all, not of thing, not a hint, not a… and then he stopped, thought again, trailed back through what Crowley had said to him, earlier on, just before everything slipped out of hand, just before…

_“Why do I always know when you are in trouble? Why do I always know where you are? Why does it bother me so much? Why do I have to come? Absolutely have to.”_

It wasn’t the _why_ that was important though, not here, not now. No… it was the _how_. _How_ did Crowley know that? _How_? (And, for later consideration, why hadn’t Aziraphale ever asked him that?) Because, if Crowley could do it for Aziraphale, then maybe, _Aziraphale_ could do it for _Crowley_?

He sat up straight, hands flat on his knees and closed his eyes, forcing the anxiety to withdraw, for a moment at least. Then, he allowed his mind to float towards Crowley, to follow its natural desire to meander to his demon friend. His eyes. His smile. The very familiar scent of him. The feel of him. The taste of him drifting in the London air.

It wasn’t easy, not at all, but Aziraphale persisted. Persisted, and built on his image of the demon, layer upon layer upon layer. Building him up, fleshing him out, making him tangible in his own mind, drawing on his motivation, continually refreshing his concentration. Until… there! Abruptly, Aziraphale felt just the smoky, wraithlike edges of something. He tried to pin it down, tried to firm it up but it was uncooperative, lithe and sinuous, winding out of his grasp every time he tried to get hold of it; it was rather like trying to grapple with smoke.

It was enough though, this ephemeral essence, as long as he was fast enough. Not a definite location, certainly not, but a sniff. A hint of Crowley. Somewhere to start at the very least.

With a renewed spring in his step, he was off, out of the gates, locking them carefully behind him once more, and heading along Horse Guards, following his nose, so to speak, winding carefully up and into Piccadilly, and then stopping dead to stand and stare around the circus and the chaos that was ensuing with all of the traffic lights fixed on green. The hint of Crowley was stronger here, not strong enough to lead straight to him, but definitely stronger, definitely confirming that he was on the right track. As if the pandemonium wasn’t. And was it a good sign, that Crowley was testing out his powers like this? Causing mischief and mayhem once more? Aziraphale hoped that it was, but deep in the pit of his stomach, a worm of apprehension was squirming around on itself.

He pushed on. The trail led up into Chinatown where a burst water main had flooded three restaurants and a supermarket. After that, it twisted its way down onto Victoria Embankment and a swanky rooftop restaurant with all of the lifts jammed in their shafts. Then up and on to Cheapside where cash machines were eating cards, refusing to dispense money and fights were breaking out left, right and centre. Along to Farringdon tube station which was washed in flashing blue lights after suffering a derailment. Up into Fitzrovia and a stubborn cloud of noxious gas which had seen homes evacuated, streets sealed off and a fleet of ambulances with their rear doors open, treating a trail of residents with oxygen and eye baths, then, finally, up to University College Hospital where, approaching with dread, Aziraphale felt the trail go cold on him.

He stood on the street outside the busy hospital and watched for a moment as ambulances went in and out. Patients and friends and loved ones and staff, a continuous stream of humanity, entered and left through the automatic doors. Almost every window in the whole place shone golden in the night, warm and welcoming and so, so normal. But still, Aziraphale could feel it, that demonic miasma, _Crowley’s_ demonic miasma, draped all over the hospital, and, unlike at any other point in their shared history, it made him feel decidedly anxious.

But where was Crowley? Where had he gone? The trail ran cold right here, right at this busy hub of human vulnerability. Right in the centre of town. Right next to… Ah… Aziraphale turned slowly on his heels, looking around him and there it was, there was the answer to his conundrum. A pub, a tiny one, old at that, been there far longer than its hospital neighbour. He and Crowley had been in it from time to time, it was nothing special, a bit spit and sawdust to be honest and had been long before that had become trendy. But it was called _The Garden of Eden_ , so how could they have _not_?

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and walked in.

It was gloomy inside, a long, thin building whose back tables were very far from the lights of the street. It was steadily busy, most tables occupied, two people waiting at the bar, what sounded like Scottish folk music playing from some tiny black boxes nestled around the picture rail. Aziraphale paused for a moment, adjusted his senses, and then made straight for the back.

There, at a table tucked away in a corner, was Crowley and Aziraphale’s insides swam in relief. His glasses were in place, if slightly skewiff, his hair was back to just plain messy rather than artfully dishevelled, his shirt was missing one of its top buttons which let it gape open and there, on the white skin beneath, as well as on the sharp angles of his face, the marks of Gabriel’s brutality could _still_ be seen. He’d spotted Aziraphale heading his way, of course he had, and he slid the bottle of _Talisker_ off the table in front of him, cradling it protectively against his chest as if he feared Aziraphale was going to try and take it from him, just as the angel settled himself in the seat opposite.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s heart was steadily pounding against his ribs, unsure of what he had walked in to, but he knew how to handle a skittish Crowley, and they hadn’t come this far, waded through every ounce of mud thrown their way, just to fail _now_.

Crowley nodded, and took a swig from the neck of the _Talisker_ , returning it to its place nestled against his chest as Aziraphale counted the empty bottles already littering the table. One _Bombay Sapphire_ , one _Grey Goose_ , one _Jack Daniels_ and a final, already-empty, _Talisker_. It seemed that Crowley had taken the time to find his way back to his favourite option for drowning his sorrows; somehow, that was oddly comforting.

Aziraphale waited a moment, wondered if he was going to be offered a swig of the whisky, but then realised that sharing from the neck of the same bottle was not something that he and this version of Crowley had ever in partaken in. Instead, he turned and gestured at the bar, dropping the knowledge of what he wanted straight into the bar man’s head, and the coins to pay for it straight into the till, before turning back to his companion and pushing out a cautious smile – it wasn’t returned.

They sat in silence as Aziraphale waited for his drink, smiling far more naturally as a huge Cosmopolitan in a cut crystal gin glass soon appeared in front of him, the bar man equally confused as to why they were selling cocktails now, and also doing table service when he had a queue. Aziraphale took an appreciative sip and then tried smiling at Crowley once more, dropping his gaze from the flat stare he was receiving back.

He decided to just jump straight in. “You seem to have had a busy couple of days,” he shuffled his drinks mat and tried to keep his tone as conversational as possible. “Lots of _wiling_ across the whole city, I see.”

Crowley remained expressionless; his long fingers curled around the _Talisker_. “I’m a demon,” he offered flatly, “it’s what I do.”

_Ah._ Aziraphale thought to himself. _Of course._ He shuffled slightly in his seat and took another sip of his drink. “I see. You know, it’s always been traditional that you let me know about any planned wiling, give me a chance to get my thwarting set up,” he twiddled his fingers, channelling his _Amazing Mr. Fell_ Crowley’s way.

It fell flat though, as everything else had, and Crowley shifted, his gaze sliding to the front of the pub and a way out. “Right. Well, yeah, sorry about that,” he tapped his head, “No memories, you know. And what do you care anyway?”

“Of course I care, dear boy. It wouldn’t look good for you to get too far ahead of me, now, would it? You’ll make me look shoddy up in Heaven,” he pouted a little for good measure, was looking forward to the sour complaints that Crowley would make back at him.

They never materialised, though, instead, Crowley just stared at him from behind those damned glasses and then shook his head, “Aziraphale, you have just thwarted two Archangels and before that you aborted their Armageddon, I think ‘shoddy’ is a generous description of what they think of you up there. And again, why do you even care?”

He didn’t, not at all, he’d just been hoping to coerce Crowley into some of their more comforting patterns of conversation. A rethink was obviously necessary, maybe he just needed to cut to the chase… “You know,” he offered quietly, “back at the bookshop, I wasn’t exactly honest when I answered your question.”

There was a pause and then Crowley scoffed at him, “What happened to, ‘I will always tell you the truth, _demon_ ’? Couldn’t keep that up for long, could you? Or do promises to a demon not count?”

Aziraphale could not stop the huff of annoyance, it really was most frustrating that Crowley had no access to the shared experiences of their lives together, the shared trust and understanding. “Will you stop with the demon pity-party, Crowley? It doesn’t suit you.”

Crowley, of course, was instantly ready with his rejoinder. “Doesn’t suit me, or doesn’t suit _you_? No one asked you to come here, tonight, _angel_ , I was doing fine on my own.” He’d never made it sound like an insult before, well, not for few thousand years, and Aziraphale felt it prickling uncomfortably up and down his spine.

“Oh, yes, I can see that!” he bit back, “The London Ambulance Service will be rolling out the over-time tonight, thanks to you!”

Crowley shrugged, fluid and bitter and self-depreciating, “What can I say-”

“And if you say ‘demon’ just one more time, then, so help me Crowley, I’ll…” he tailed off, and Crowley slid straight in.

“You’ll what? Hmm? _Smite me_? You think I’m ready for a good smiting? Send me back to the pits of Hell with all the other dregs of creation?”

“Stop it!” Aziraphale was louder than he had intended being, but his cheeks were flushed red with the implication, and the thought that _this_ was what Crowley actually thought – about both of them – was agonising.

Crowley had jerked, as if slapped, by the wrath in Aziraphale’s tone but now his lip had curled into a self-fulfilled sneer and he gripped his bottle a little tighter as he slunk down against the back of his seat. Aziraphale sighed and shook his head, hauling his temper back under control. “Just, stop it, Crowley,” he repeated, far more gently. “I won’t have you saying such things. I would never smite you, I would never hurt you, and you are nothing like the other demons. You’re my friend.”

And, yet again, the wrong thing to say. “Ah, yes, _best_ friends…”

How could someone as well read as Aziraphale always choose his words so, so badly? He rubbed his forehead with two, slightly shaking fingertips. “Look, about that…”

Crowley unfurled from the seat back, placing the bottle back on the table and straightening his clothing, his lip still curled. “No, no, it’s fine, it’s all fine. Don’t worry about it. You either lied to me and, hey, demon, right? So I guess you’d be contractually obliged to, or you didn’t lie and – _friends_ – so, whatever. Makes no difference to me either way.”

The blatant lie, the attempt to push Aziraphale away from him, to sever their bond, was painful. “Oh, stop being so completely obtuse, will you?”

“What? Stop being so demonic? I don’t know if I-”

“Stop!” and Aziraphale didn’t have to register the wash of fear in Crowley’s expression to know that his eyes had flared white. He forced them closed, folded his hands into frustrated fists and took deep breaths, one after another, after another, until he was calm once more. Then, he opened them up again, watched for a moment as Crowley studiously ignored him and tried again. “Crowley, _please_ , stop. I’m sorry, so sorry. I have made the biggest mess of this from start to finish. The whole thing. No wonder you don’t trust me, I hardly trust myself, my own decisions, anymore. I just can’t seem to stop doing it all so wrong.” But this wasn’t about him, _it wasn’t_ , and he wasn’t going to make it.

Crowley let out a long breath of air, and with it, some of his pretences. “Look, don’t beat yourself up over this. It’s not that I don’t _trust_ you – I just don’t _know_ you.” He shrugged; his expression blank. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, and we’re diametrically opposed beings. Of course this is a car crash.”

Aziraphale shot him a look. “I _do_ know you, Crowley,” but Crowley’s mouth turned down, his voice fell softly in the buzz of the pub.

“No, you _knew_ me. I’m different now. Very different.”

Aziraphale leant in, fixed his gaze on those blank glasses and wished that Crowley had the confidence to do away with them. “You’re not. Believe me, Crowley, you absolutely are _not_.”

And back came the sneer. “Oh, no? Another lie there, already?” he leaned in too, mirroring Aziraphale’s pose across the table. “I saw your face. I know that _your_ Crowley wouldn’t have done what I’ve done today, the train, the gas, the hospital…” he flopped back in his seat and waved a hand, regally. “It’s okay, you don’t have to hang around here any longer, I absolve you of your misplaced sense of loyalty.”

Despite the dramatics, Aziraphale’s blood chilled in his veins. “The _hospital_? What do you mean? What have you done to the hospital?”

Crowley fixed him with a look, and, for a moment, Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure that he was going to answer, but then he did. A swig of whisky, a relocation of his gaze, a surreptitious breath in and then, “Easy done, really, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

“What?”

“A few weakened steels here and there, a little shift in the foundations…” he shrugged, eyes still on the wall. “You can’t expect to build a structure so high and not have some issues to deal with.”

A wave of fear ran through Aziraphale and he felt himself draw upwards, felt the Principality in him sit up and take notice at the threat to so many of his human charges. “You’re- You’re going to _collapse the hospital_?”

Another swig of whisky. “Like I said, easy done.”

Aziraphale was lost for words, his holy ire warring with the absolute desire to save Crowley from whatever it was that was eating at him like this – making him be like this when he so absolutely _was not_.

Meanwhile, his stunned silence seemed to be turning Crowley’s bitterness more rancid still. “See, not something _your_ Crowley would have done, is it?” He nodded, savagely satisfied. “You just watch what happens when Hell get a whiff of this. They’ll _love_ me down there again – all that Armageddon shit will soon be swept under the carpet.”

Aziraphale stared and thought and tried not to panic and wondered if he were too late and… suddenly realised something. He martialled his scattered thoughts together and met Crowley’s skipping gaze across the table. “And yet, you haven’t done it.”

Again, Crowley startled. “What?”

Aziraphale watched him, his heart a heavy tattoo against his ribs but a calm certainty washing through him. He _knew_ Crowley. “The hospital is still standing. You haven’t done it, have you? Not yet. What are you waiting for? Until you’ve drunk enough? Until you can convince yourself that you’re evil enough?”

A flash of anger erupted from the other side of the table and Crowley shot forward in his seat, teeth barred, fists clenched. “I _am_ evil enough, Aziraphale, I am a _demon_! Don’t you understand that?”

“Of course I understand that!” Aziraphale unleashed a little of his anger, too. “I have spent six thousand years understanding that! It’s you who doesn’t understand anything!”

“And how can I? How can I possibly be expected to know what the _fuck_ is going on when, apart from being a demon, I don’t even know who I am! I’m a _demon_ , Aziraphale, this _is_ what I _am_!”

And suddenly, it was all so very, very clear. So very, very obvious. This was the opening that Aziraphale had been looking for, had been prodding for, and he had to take it. Take it and use and it and absolutely not fuck this one up at all. Not at all. He smiled, _he could do this_ , and his anger washed out of him with realisation. He leaned forward to grip Crowley’s fingers, ignoring the way that the demon stiffened at the touch. “No, oh, Crowley, dearest, _no_. It may very well be your _classification_ , but it is not who you are! You are _you_!” He smiled into the gape that Crowley was giving him. “And that you is funny and clever, spontaneous and independent, brave and reckless, stylish and disobedient, kind and moral, dramatic and sarcastic, loyal and lovable.” He squeezed those lax fingers in his a little more tightly. “Oh! So lovable, my dear! I have loved you for millennia, loved you and hidden it because I am _not,_ and never have been, brave, or spontaneous or reckless or independent or disobedient or any of the wonderful things that you are!” He forced himself to hold Crowley’s stare. “Even just then, at the bookshop, when we were so close to losing it all again, I _still_ couldn’t bring myself to tell you everything you needed to know for you to understand that it is alright being _you_ , it’s _wonderful_ being you. You aren’t Hell’s lackey and you aren’t Heaven’s reject. You are a wonderful mix of it all, the human too, and I _love_ you for it,” goodness, he had never dreamt that it would be so easy to say! “Yes, I love you as a friend, but also as a brother, as my family, my _only_ family, and,” he swallowed his courage failing him just a shade, “as _anything_ else we could _ever_ be to each other, _on any level_. You are my everything, Crowley. My _everything_. Without you in my life, at my side, I have nothing.”

Crowley stared, he just stared, but Aziraphale could feel the minute trembling of his fingers where they were held so closely in his own and he waited, let it all sink in, let it all settle. He knew that it would. How could it not?

The moment stretched out, just like so many times throughout history, they were the only ones who existed, the only one that mattered to the other. Aziraphale held his gaze, held his hand and silently offered to hold his heart and his soul for the rest of eternity.

Slowly, Crowley wilted slightly, his shoulders dropped away from his ears, his fingers felt less like broken stalactites, the slash of his mouth curved into something more natural. Aziraphale watched him swallow, watched the faint edges of a blush creep through the bruises on his face and knew the words were coming just before they were given their freedom at last, breathed out into what he hoped was going to be a world where an angel and a demon could be honest with each other at long last. “You know,” it was barely more than a whisper. “I think – I believe what you’re saying-”

That had been far easier than Aziraphale had ever imagine it would! He felt the smile that bloomed over him even as he had to blink his way through the sudden wash of tears in his eyes. “Oh, my _dear_ , that’s-”

“Or, well, I believe that’s what you believe to be true, at any rate.” Ah. Of course, of course.

“Crowley,” he squeezed those thin fingers again. “It _is_ true.”

Crowley’s expression at that, the utter desperation for it to be true, for Aziraphale to _make_ it true, it was heart breaking. “It might have been, once,” he whispered, “but now? After all this? I don’t think so. Any shine on my soul has well and truly tarnished now.” Aziraphale watched his throat bob as he swallowed once more. “And I think that _our_ ship has sailed without us. We missed our moment. I crashed a train. I poisoned a street full of people. I tempted an Archangel to murder a child. _I can’t be who you want me to be._ Not anymore. Once upon a time, maybe, another time, another place… But not _now_. Not anymore.”

But Aziraphale was not giving up. Not ever. “You have not been listening to what I have been saying,” he entreated.

“I have, and-”

“No, dearest, you have _not_. Your nature does not make you who you are, your actions do.”

Crowley was bleeding; Aziraphale could feel him. Bleeding doubt and self-hatred and regrets and uncertainty, and it was destroying him. “Yes! And look what I have done!”

Aziraphale shook his head and refused to let go of the fingers in his, even when Crowley tried to tug them away. “You were wrong, and you know that you were wrong – not with how you saved Iris, by the way – but the train, the hospital, yes, that was wrong, but you are allowed to be wrong once in a while!”

“Oh, yes,” Crowley was back to spitting. “I know that much. You’re allowed to be wrong and that gets you nose diving into the pits of Hell!”

“And She was wrong!” She was – and how much uncertainty could Aziraphale himself have avoided if he’d only accepted that a few thousand years earlier? “And She knows it, and She understands forgiveness now; I understand forgiveness now! I will always forgive you because I know your heart. And now _you_ , Crowley, you don’t have to hate yourself for your classification. You need to start forgiving yourself a little too.”

Crowley shook his head, his expression ripped open. “How can I after everything I have done?” and Aziraphale frowned at him, knowing that there was more here, still more to dig out of him.

“This isn’t about the train is it? Or the hospital, or the gas,” it absolutely was not. “What is this about, dear? Please tell me. What is that you think is so _awful_ about yourself that you need to act like this? That you feel you need to do things so opposed to your true character, just to _what_? Prove something? Atone for something? I don’t understand, please explain it to me.”

Crowley shook his head, his lips pressed together, struggling so, so desperately. He’d never been good at facing his emotions, his deepest thoughts, but then neither had Aziraphale and look where that had got them at the end of the World – Crowley in a burning car, Aziraphale in a burning bookshop and a world that had needed saving by a gang of eleven year olds. What a pair of fuck ups they both were. But that, Aziraphale knew, was their one real strength – that, whatever they were, they were it together. He squeezed Crowley’s hands again, projected his love, his care, his adoration, his strength, as powerfully as he possibly could and maybe Crowley felt it because he lifted his head a little then, not quite managing to look Aziraphale in the eye, but close enough, a cheek bone maybe and then, his voice the barest of whispers, he spoke.

“Aziraphale…”

Aziraphale waited, waited.

“He never Fell, though, did he?” It was like the words were being pried from the tightest grip of his soul. “After all that he did, _he never Fell_. But me… _I did_. What did I do? What the fuck did I do that was worse than all of _that_? I must have been everything he said I was, _worse_ than everything he said I was. I Fell – he didn’t. How can I ever deserve any of this _life_? Or, or… you?!”

Aziraphale frowned. “He never…? _Gabriel_?” he felt his heart as it crumpled in on itself in despair. “Oh, my _darling_ , no. Crowley, please, no do not think like this. You Fell for _nothing_. For being in the wrong place at the wrong time and listening to the words of the wrong angels! You Fell because She was hurting and vengeful and lashing out at the betrayal of _other_ angels. You told me what happened, I _saw_ what happened, and you never, _ever_ deserved any of what befell you!”

That got Crowley’s eyes on him then, that truth of what they had shared before, “I _told_ you?” it was clear that this Crowley could never imagine ever trusting anyone that much.

“You did.”

The ghost of a smile, “I probably lied.”

“You have never lied to me.”

“I’m a demon.”

“Doesn’t matter.” It didn’t. It absolutely bloody DID NOT. Aziraphale just hoped that he could do enough, _he had done enough_ , to get Crowley to understand that. “She realised that She was wrong. She has _never_ made another angel Fall since the rebellion ended. Not after the Nephilim, not after everything Gabriel did. She was wrong and She changed. She realises now that mistakes are opportunities to learn, opportunities to improve. And it’s how you have always lived your life, me too. Please don’t stop now.”

But Crowley shook his head, still crushed in the guilt of what he was. “What? You think I can just say, ‘ _Oh, whoops, sorry about that train crashing, but I’m sure your legs will grow back just fine, I’ve learnt now, that-_ ’”

“I’ve already sorted it.”

Crowley drew up short, his mouth hanging open. “What?”

Aziraphale stared, steadfastly, at him. “I sorted it. Fixed the lights at Piccadilly, fixed the water main and reversed all the flooding in Chinatown. Fixed the lifts at Radio Rooftop, returned everyone’s money on Cheapside. No one was hurt in that tube derailment, no one has suffered any after-effects of the gas cloud. It’s sorted, dealt with. Not a problem anymore.”

Crowley gaped at him. “You can’t just _do_ that! You can’t just… wave your wings at them and make all of my disasters go away!”

“Why not?” Aziraphale shrugged and leaned in to make sure that he was catching Crowley’s hidden eyes head on. “It’s what we’ve always done. It’s what _you’ve_ always done. You have always filled in for me when I have been far too cowed to act, _always_. You saved children from The Flood, as many as you could, flown out and into China where they would be safe. You eased Jesus’ pain at the very end of his mortal life. You rescued Christians from the amphitheatres, Jews from the concentration camps, would-be slaves from the trading boats and whole villages from genocides. You have spent your entire existence making all of _my_ disasters go away; why can’t I do a little in return?”

Poor Crowley looked floored. “But, but they weren’t _yours_ , you didn’t dream them up and launch them at the unsuspecting humans!”

Aziraphale did not flinch. “No, but my superiors did. And I did nothing – at all – to stop them.” He leaned in a little, “Still believe that I’m the good one and you’re the bad one?”

Shaking his head, Crowley looked down at the table. “I don’t… I don’t know what to believe.”

The angel squeezed those long fingers even more tightly in his own, “Believe _me_. I promise you; I will never tell you a lie.”

It was all so much. “You lied to me earlier, at the bookshop. You just admitted that.”

“No, I didn’t. I omitted some truths; I didn’t lie. I omitted telling you how desperately deeply I loved you because I was scared that it would run you off, and in the end, I drove you away anyway – so what did I gain? Nothing. I will not make that same mistake once more.” He absolutely would not. Apparently, there were plenty of new ones he could make.

And Crowley sagged before him, finally beaten down by everything around him. Finally lost and swamped and overwhelmed – but also finally seeming to realise that he did have someone there for him, at his side, _on_ his side, always. His voice was barely a whisper, a plea for help. “Aziraphale, I don’t know who I am…”

Aziraphale stepped in, stepped up. “I know. But you will learn, and I can help you, if you want.”

Crowley had no answer to that, he was obviously clinging to the very end of his rope by his shredded finger-tips and Aziraphale stepped in again, running a hand up his arm to rest just above his elbow, squeezing, just reminding him that he wasn’t alone, would never be alone again.

“Look, you’re obviously exhausted, let’s fix that hospital and then I’ll take you home and you can get some rest.”

“Home?” Crowley looked up.

“The flat at the flower shop.”

A vehement shake of the head. “I don’t want to go back there.”

“Oh. Of course,” Aziraphale’s mind spun on. “Well, you have a flat of your own, actually. From before. In Mayfair.”

“No.”

“Right,” Plan C then. “Well, I understand that, my dear. Completely. To be honest, after everything that has happened these last few days, I feel a little like that about the bookshop too, but maybe we could return there? For this evening? To rest up a little? Regroup so to speak.”

Crowley’s expression didn’t flicker. “Or a hotel? Maybe? I mean, you don’t have to, I could go on my own or we could have separate rooms and-”

Aziraphale’s smile halted his frenetic rambling in its tracks. “I think that would be an _excellent_ idea. Just the ticket. A neutral venue where we could sit and talk some things out, plan some forward moves, get some rest, that type of thing?”

Crowley nodded.

“I know just the place. And we can fix that hospital on the way, it won’t take a moment.”

There was a pause then, a shifty kind of pause, and a half glance thrown up from under Crowley’s glasses. “I already sorted it.”

Aziraphale’s smile widened. “Of course you did, you _wonderful_ demon.” He slid his glass away and squeezed Crowley’s arm one final time before he pushed up from his seat. “Come on, let’s get going then. The Portobello Hotel has some marvellous bath tubs; you look like you could really do with a good soak.”

For the very briefest of moments, Aziraphale felt that Crowley wasn’t going to shift from his place in the corner, but then, keeping his gaze carefully away from Aziraphale, he rose to follow, bringing the Talisker with him, cradled against his chest once more. Aziraphale paused, his voice so very soft and gentle. “You don’t have to bring that with you, dear boy.” He watched as Crowley’s eyes flicked to the bottle. “You shouldn’t need it anymore tonight.”

The bottle was left on the table and an angel and a demon left the pub together their fingers interlaced. Their own side. At last.

~~**~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I reckon we have around 10,000 words worth of loose ends to tie up after all that drama! :D


	23. How Utterly Lovely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny, tiny chapter for now, and then, hopefully, a longer one tonight :) Let's start on those loose ends!   
> I'm thinking maybe 26 or 27 chapters all in all.

“Thank you so much, yes, that’s all for now. Thank you. Thank you.”

Aziraphale shook his head, finally able to get rid of the server at his door – the things he needed to do just to get a cup of tea and a freshly baked scone for his elevenses – and carefully carried the tray across the room, setting it down, as softly as possible, on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. Risking a glance at the bed, he was pleased to see that the room service delivery hadn’t awoken his room-mate; not that he could see an awful lot of Crowley under the mound of duvet, mind you. But still, it was quiet and calm and just what they both needed after the perfectly horrid events of the last few months.

Pouring his tea and buttering his scone, Aziraphale let his mind wander to nothing more exciting than considering the room service Mediterranean risotto he’d had when they had first checked in, still reeling and shell-shocked, Crowley, also filthy and bruised. It had been delicious, and just what he’d needed, and he’d eaten it cross-legged on the bed, Crowley almost submerged in the huge, brass tub bath that was nestled under the window, a mass of bubbles framing his pale features as he sipped coffee, watched Aziraphale eat, and slowly let some of the tension seep out of his frame.

They’d spoken of nothing, really. Certainly not Gabriel or Uriel, the events of the bookshop or Crowley’s demonic wiling around the city. They hadn’t even mentioned Anathema or her family, although Aziraphale did think about them a lot, did hope that they were okay. They didn’t talk about Crowley’s missing memories or the life he had before, they didn’t talk about their six-thousand-year history or how Aziraphale had felt when he’d thought Crowley was dead – and they certainly hadn’t discussed themselves and their incredibly complicated relationship.

They were too raw for that, everything had been scraped too deeply, and they needed a night of warmth and silence, of a roaring fire (despite the summer month) and coffee, chocolate mousse and port, and, of course, simple companionship.

When Crowley had finished with his bath, he’d dried himself in front of the fire, totally unconcerned with his modesty in a way that made Aziraphale think that maybe he had a feeling of how close they had been in the preceding years. He’d let Aziraphale heal him then, finally, and it had been a relief to see only flawless skin instead of the cuts and bruising that Gabriel had left him with. Afterwards, he’d wrapped himself in a bathrobe and curled into a chair in front of the fire, watching as Aziraphale and the port took a turn in the bath, talking on about the history of port, the language of flowers and all the eighties American comedies that Crowley had discovered which, of course, Aziraphale had never heard of.

Dawn was spreading tufts of candy-floss across the sky as Aziraphale eased himself out of the bath and Crowley laughed at his wrinkled fingers. He was in the bed by now, languid against a mountain of pillows and Aziraphale had donned his own robe, towelling his hair dry like a human whilst he watched Crowley trying to keep his eyes open.

“You can go to sleep, you know,” he offered gently. “It’s usually what humans do in hotel rooms, after all.” He felt, rather uncomfortably, that Crowley was also far too aware of _what else_ humans got up to in hotel rooms.

He didn’t voice any of that though, just offered a tired smile Aziraphale’s way with a, “I don’t want to be unsociable.”

It wasn’t that, though, Aziraphale knew for certain that it wasn’t that as he felt the exact same thing himself. They were both worried, terrified actually, that if they took their eyes off the other for even the briefest of moments, it would all collapse around them, and they would be left facing an eternity alone once more. Aziraphale felt it, sharply, and enough to make his heart pound every time he allowed it to creep up on him, but how he knew that Crowley felt it too, he couldn’t really say.

“How about I sit over here,” he offered gently, folding himself in amongst the pillows and the bed head, smiling as he pulled a book from the ether, “and you can stay there, and have a nap if you like, and then we won’t be unsociable at all, will we now?”

Crowley didn’t answer at first, and Aziraphale was terrified that he was going to object, but then he simply nodded, waiting for Aziraphale to get settled, before shifting himself around so that the line of his spine was pressed tightly to Aziraphale’s thigh, and, as London awoke around them, that’s how they settled.

Aziraphale didn’t read for long, it couldn’t really hold his attention and, as soon as Crowley’s breathing settled into the familiar cadence of sleep, Aziraphale closed his book and, instead, reached out with one hand, gently placing it on top of the duvet, right over the point of Crowley’s hip and twisted to watch him sleep. It was soothing, watching the rise and fall of his breathing, hearing the odd little snuffle as he readjusted himself, watching him, watching _over_ him and knowing that, for the first time in far too many years to remember, Crowley was safe and protected and with someone who loved him, _really_ loved him. It had been the most wonderful feeling.

So, now it was, he glanced at the carriage clock on the mantlepiece, eleven thirty a.m. and Aziraphale had booked the suite for another night – he’d book it for the rest of the month if that was how long Crowley wanted to sleep – and he had an idea that he needed to look into. He finished his scone (date and walnut and very nice, if a little dry around the edges) and draped a careful noise deadening miracle over his sleeping demon, before picking up the telephone from the desk and carefully dialling a number he knew by heart.

It rang three times before it was answered and the voice on the other end did wonders in further soothing his worries. Anathema sounded bright and cheerful and just as relieved as he was that the whole nightmare was over with. He asked about Newton and Iris and the answers made him smile. Anathema enquired about Crowley, and Aziraphale was able to settle her own concerns about him even whilst he watched him sleep mere metres away. Then, essentials out of the way, Aziraphale moved onto the next item on his agenda.

“Anathema dear,” he smiled as Crowley snuffled and turned over, a flash of red hair surfacing for a moment before disappearing under the duvet once more. “The holiday cottage your mother owns in Dorset, is she using it right now, do you know?

_

“No? Oh, right. And has anyone else booked it for the rest of the summer, then?

_

“Oh – really? _Cancelled?_ Oh dear, that’s dreadful!

_

“No, I did not! I only thought about it this very morning!

_

“Could we, then? Are you sure?

_

“Right up until the end of September? Oh, that would be perfect! Thank you so much!

_

“Oh no, not really. We just fancied getting out of the city for a little while.”

We.

_We._

He and Crowley, together.

How utterly lovely.

Aziraphale honestly couldn’t remember feeling so _content_ with everything ever before – despite all the issues they still needed to clear up. Time was all they needed, really, and now, _finally_ , time seemed to be theirs for the taking.


	24. INTERLUDE: Twelve Tuesdays, Parts 1-3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normal sized post - as promised :)  
> I have to say... I LOVE part 3 of this :)   
> ____________________________

Tuesday 27th August 2024

It was an overcast day, and really, given the date and its potent reminders, Aziraphale had expected little more. The town centre was still busy though, he doubted that there was a town on the south coast that wasn’t busy in August, but the beach looked relatively empty.

Aziraphale strode that way now, with a determination in his step that was fuelled, just a little, by paranoia. Maybe he’d been wrong for them to split up today even for the, he glanced at his watch, forty minutes his trip into town had taken? Maybe, this day of all days, they should have stayed together? Or maybe he was being completely paranoid and ridiculous. This was the sixth anniversary of that dreadful day when Crowley had vanished on him at the Airfield and nothing dreadful had happened on any of the previous five – they were never going to move on with their lives if Aziraphale continued living in a fearful past.

And that’s what this whole trip into town had been about, Aziraphale reminded himself, moving on. The last five weeks had been steady and settled and quiet and, well, just what they had needed really, to start to process everything that had gone on before. They hadn’t really done anything, they hadn’t really talked – it had never been their style – and Crowley was still so obviously _cautious_ around him, stepping around a being he just didn’t know.

Aziraphale too, he supposed. Crowley was still Crowley, how could he not be? But still, the six years apart had changed him, made him believe he was less than he was, made him believe that he was alone in a way he’d never been alone before because Aziraphale had never let him be. It sometimes took him by surprise, the silence, the looks, the doubt; of the two of them, Crowley had always been the very best at throwing off the doubt.

His human habits were proving hard to drop, as well. He’d always liked his sleep, but it was now hard for him to go more than twenty-four hours without. Aziraphale had seen him trying, though, watching Aziraphale’s own ability to go without and pushing his own in response, leaving him red-eyed and sallow. In response to that, Aziraphale started sleeping too, Anathema’s mother’s cottage had two bedrooms and so they each retired at the end of the day and Aziraphale went to sleep, for a few hours at least. Usually until Crowley’s nightmares woke him up.

Eating too. The human ‘Tom’ had genuinely believed that he needed to eat to stave off ill health and so had made sure that he ate at least one meal every day. From what Aziraphale understood, he’d never enjoyed it, but still, it was a hard habit to break. He did seem happier once he’d started to eat a few mouthfuls along with each of Aziraphale’s meals, though, rather than one entire meal at the end of the day.

So, yes, adjustments. Breathing space in the borrowed cottage, but the deadline of the end of September had been rapidly baring down on them, and neither of them seemed the least bit inclined to head back into London and the scenes of all the recent drama. Hence this trip into Poole.

Aziraphale had left the town behind him at this point and was heading to the carpark at the beach where he had left Crowley and their hire car. Unable to help himself, he craned his neck a little, trying to make out the figure of his dearest friend on the sands but there were too many dog walkers and playing children and joggers and courting couples for him to be able to see from so far away. He could feel Crowley though, that slightly fuzzy darkness he’d identified for the first time the night after they’d finally freed themselves of Gabriel’s poison, and that reassured him. Crowley was near, Crowley was fine, Crowley was waiting for him in exactly the same place that Aziraphale had left him.

Five more minutes walking and, yes, there he was, right up at the quiet end of the beach, standing on the flat, wet sand, boots, skinny jeans, black blazer, his hair the only shock of colour about him as he skipped stones across the flat sea. Keeping his distance, Aziraphale paused and just pocketed a moment to stand and take him in, his long lines, his distinctive fluidity… oh, how he loved him, he loved him so very, very deeply and he wasn’t going to hurt him, not like Gabriel had done, playing with his emotions the way that he had. That familiar wave of hatred washed around inside him. No, Aziraphale would be exactly what Crowley needed at every moment for the rest eternity, and what Crowley needed right now was company – and time.

The stone that had just left Crowley’s hand sped out across the glassy surface skipping on and on as they both watched, transfixed. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Twelve! Crowley spun on the spot then, intent on retrieving another pebble and trying again and the sheer unbounded joy in his expression lit a fire in Aziraphale’s heart. There was the demon that he’d met on the walls of Eden, that delight at being out in the world with its plants and its sunshine and its _sky_. Alone at this end of the beach Crowley’s glasses were tucked into the neckline of his shirt and his eyes just shone with the simple pleasure of being free, it was all that Aziraphale needed to banish the spectres of this date for ever more.

He saw the moment that Crowley realised he was no longer alone, watched the worry sweep across his expression and the hand twitch towards his glasses, but then he realised who it was who was watching him and some of that freedom washed back into him, not all of it, but enough for him to leave his eyes uncovered, to smile Aziraphale’s way and nod at the envelope in his fingers. “You got them, then?”

Aziraphale nodded back, drawing in closer and wondering if Crowley’s voice would always make his stomach swirl in happiness.

“Anything we might like?”

Another happy swirl sparked by the ‘we’ this time and he nodded again. “A few,” he answered. “I didn’t really look that closely in the Estate Agents.”

Crowley smiled at him. “Well, why don’t we have a look now? There’s some picnic tables back there, and don’t think I didn’t notice the flask and the tin of whatever it was that you snuck into the boot of the car.”

Aziraphale smiled back at him, oh so very fond. “Caramel shortbread.”

Crowley laughed. “Of course. And, if we see any we like, we could even see if they’re free for a viewing later on today.”

Yet another happy swirl and Aziraphale nodded again as they headed back to the car to collect their little after-breakfast snack. There would be opportunities for a viewing today, if they saw anything they liked, Aziraphale was certain of that – after all, who could ever resist the Serpent of Eden? Not him. Never him.

~~**~~

Tuesday 24th September 2024

“I’m not sure about this…”

Crowley was fretting, and Aziraphale really did not see the need. “Not sure about what, dear boy?” he asked gently as he sorted packing boxes into piles.

Crowley sighed and paced and Aziraphale did not look up, although he could imagine him running a hand through his hair. “The rooms! The allocation! It doesn’t seem fair!”

“Allocation?” Aziraphale pushed a box of things vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. “That makes it all sound ever so formal. It’s not that, really, is it? It’s just us, deciding where to put things.”

“But I know that you have been sleeping recently,” Crowley was not easily soothed, “and it seems mean that you need to squeeze a bed in the library with all your books!”

“Darling,” Aziraphale could think of a very simple answer to this conundrum, but he feared that Crowley was not comfortably in ‘that place’ yet. Instead, he sat back on his heels and looked up, finding Crowley, as expected, with a hand raking through his hair. “You can think of it like that, or you can think of it as me stuffing my bedroom so full of books that there is hardly any room for a bed.” He shrugged, “It’s the same effect.”

Crowley shook his head, “But there’s so much empty space in my room,” he maintained. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

Standing up, Aziraphale walked up to him and took his hand, holding it tightly. “Crowley. You have seen my bookshop. You have seen both the flat above the flower shop and your old penthouse in Mayfair. I like clutter, you like empty spaces. This is not an issue at all. Please don’t make it into one.”

For a moment Crowley just stared at him and then, like an overblown balloon, he just deflated. His shoulders sagging as he turned away and went to stare into the conservatory, where a single parlour palm, the first of his new collection, was standing and looking around himself in awe at all the space he had. Sagging a little himself in sympathy, Aziraphale went to stand next to him, taking his hand again. He followed Crowley’s line of sight and noticed him staring at the garage across their driveway – the Bentley’s new home – and his heart sank a little more.

She had arrived the day before, not long after the removal truck had left, on the back of a lorry, all wrapped up in a cover, like a Christmas present. They’d stood, side by side, as the men had backed her off and uncovered her, buffing off a little travelling dust, and telling Aziraphale what a beauty she was. He’d nodded and played along, dredging up as much enthusiasm as he could whilst being hyper-aware of Crowley standing up against the wall, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his face impassive.

Finally, the men left, the lorry edging down the narrow lane away from their cottage and Aziraphale had waited, waited, waited whilst the Bentley seemed to preen in the sunshine, almost vibrating under Crowley’s eyes for the first time since that fateful day over six years ago when she had burnt into nothing getting him to Tadfield. The moment pulled on, Crowley remained expressionless and then, with a barely perceptible shake of his head, he’d pushed up from the wall and walked away; Aziraphale was sure that he had felt the car’s non-existent heart breaking.

Crowley had returned later that night with the smell of the sea about him and a shell which he presented to Aziraphale in silent apology. Aziraphale had taken it with a smile and a kiss on his cheek and had carefully placed it next to the back door, right at the crease of wall and path, and had then ushered Crowley inside to the fire and a glass of red. They hadn’t spoken of his missing hours, or of the Bentley, and Aziraphale had slipped out after Crowley had retired, to carefully park her in the garage.

“Give him time,” he’d whispered as he locked her up for the night. “He doesn’t remember either of us, he doesn’t know what to do with our love. It’s hard for him, you know?” She hadn’t answered, but he felt she’d understood – she’d always understood Crowley. 

Back in the conservatory with the single palm, Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “This will be alright,” he told him softly, “it will,” and he was rewarded with the slightest huff of a laugh.

“I know.”

“It can be whatever we want it to be.”

The slightest of pauses, “I know.”

“I could murder a cup of tea.”

Crowley laughed out loud at that. “Miracle one up then!”

Aziraphale squeezed his fingers again. “It’s not the same, and you know it.”

“You’re right. I do.” He turned then, and Aziraphale was so pleased that he’d kept their hands linked together. “Is this your way of telling me to bugger off and unpack all the things in the kitchen, then?”

Aziraphale smiled at him, “Maybe.”

Crowley nodded. “Well, I won’t be sorting your boxes of tea into spectrum colour order, you know.”

“I know. They’ll be alphabetical, won’t they?”

It was refreshing, watching Crowley floundering for a comeback when Aziraphale had so completely nailed him. None came, nothing verbal at any rate and, with a last black look over his shoulder, Crowley went to unpack boxes of tea, and Aziraphale went back to sorting his books into spectrum colour order feeling happier than he could ever remember feeling before.

This _was_ going to be alright – books, bedrooms, tea, the Bentley – they were going to be very, very happy here he knew. They just had to make this journey at their own pace. 

~~**~~

Tuesday 29th October 2024

Anathema shifted her chair a little so that she could keep her eye on Iris in the garden and still reach the table for the tea and scones that Aziraphale was busy serving up.

“Is she alright?” catching her movement, the angel’s face was creased in concern, his eyes flicking between the garden and the dining table in the window, obviously wondering if he’d missed something.

“She’s fine,” Anathema smiled at him. “It’s just-” and there she floundered, her stomach twisting into knots as it did at regular points in every day but hugely unwilling to revisit all that trauma in present company.

“I know,” warm fingers laced with hers as they lay on the table. “The worry never leaves, does it?”

She could see from his own expression that he’d meant his as well as hers, and she forced herself to smile, unwilling to let him get lost in his own distresses. “No,” she admitted, “but I suppose that’s all part of being a mom,” she squeezed his fingers, “and a partner.”

They separated and Aziraphale poured and they both looked out at the garden at where Crowley was giving Iris a thorough tour. “She seems to be so much steadier on her feet!” Aziraphale remarked and Anathema glowed with pride.

“Isn’t she? Newt takes her out every day, and walking through the woods rather than up and down the Embankment has been so much better for her balance and coordination.”

“I can see! But walking the Embankment got her started, didn’t it?”

Anathema smiled, remembering the days when she wondered if Iris would ever be able to walk on her own. “It did. Chasing pigeons was a real motivator!”

They laughed and Aziraphale sipped his tea, “And how is Newt?” he asked carefully, Anathema shrugged.

“Oh, he’s fine. He sends his best, said to tell you that everything is ‘tickety-boo’ and that he hasn’t broken a thing.”

Those blue eyes sparkled as Aziraphale took another sip of tea and she wondered how often he was miracling himself up to London in the dead of night to check on the bookshop himself. “There’s not much in there he can break,” he admitted. “The till is purely mechanical, there’s my old personal computer, I suppose, but Crowley always used to say that the Victoria and Albert would be around one day to pick it up for their collection,” he shrugged, “so that might not be such a bad thing.”

Anathema smiled. She appreciated Aziraphale trying to joke about it, but she knew that leaving the shop behind, leaving Newt in charge and with carte blanche to sell any of the remaining stock, had been so very, very hard for him. Anyway. It had needed doing, though, the bookshop had become less of a bolthole and more of a prison for him over the last six years, and now, filled with dreadful memories of Gabriel and his antics, well, Aziraphale had needed the break from it all. “He’s made some good sales, and is even looking at bringing some more stock in.” She deliberately kept it light. “There’s a couple of clearance sales coming up that he’s going to.”

It was comforting, if not, in fact, amusing, the way that Aziraphale eyes lit up at that. “Oh! How exciting! And would he let me look, do you think? At the stock he gets, before he puts it up for sale?”

Once a book hoarder, always a book hoarder. “Of course.”

“Oh. Jolly good.”

They slid into silence at that, nothing but the tinkling of their china and the quiet murmurs coming from Crowley and Iris in the garden.

Anathema watched as he swallowed a bite of scone and then put it down on his plate once more, wiping his fingers on a napkin and bolstering himself before asking, “And he’s – you know – coping?”

Picking up a few crumbs on the end of her finger and popping them into her mouth, Anathema wondered how best to answer that. “Well, yes…” she conceded, “it still bothers him, that he couldn’t protect us from any of it. It’s that usual macho men crap… but you know, it bothers him.”

She watched the frown crease the angel’s forehead. “My dear, _I_ couldn’t protect you from any of that and I am an Angel of the Lord, a Principality whose _purpose_ is to protect humans. What hope did Newton have against it all?”

“I know,” she smiled at him. “ _He_ knows, in here, but not so much in here.” She tapped her head and then her heart. Poor Newt. Always so concerned about what he _wasn’t_ , rather than what he _was_.

Aziraphale lowered his voice and waggled his fingers, “I could… you know…”

Anathema knew. “No. Thank you. I’m not at all sure that forgetting everything is the way forward.”

She felt bad for the angel’s wince.

“Quite. I could talk to him, though? Explain a little, if you thought that would help?”

“Thank you,” her lips tried to tug into a smile as she pictured the mortified look on Newt’s face if he realised that he was expected to have a heart to heart with Aziraphale. “We’re doing okay just now though, but I’ll bear it in mind. Certainly.”

Aziraphale seemed mollified by that and took another bite from his scone as a gust of wind blew Iris’ voice across the garden to them. “Blue flower,” she noted, her finger pointing and, although Crowley’s response was lost to them, they could see him pulling a Michaelmas Daisy closer so that she could touch it.

“Goodness me!” Aziraphale’s eyes were wide, impressed, but also shining in love. “She knows her colours! And her speech as well! It’s so much clearer, and she’s starting to make sentences?”

Anathema laughed. “Some colours, but yes, she is. The speech therapist is over the moon with her progress. She says that when she starts school full time it will only accelerate further.”

Aziraphale beamed and Anathema felt it wash over her, soothe her and renew her and she knew that Aziraphale had absolutely no idea he was doing any of it. “Oh, my dear, that is splendid! You must be so proud of her.”

Her eyes had been back on the garden where Iris, her turquoise anorak, pink leggings and purple boots, a direct counterpart to Crowley’s black, had now taken Crowley by the hand and was leading him towards the fence at the back of the garden, demanding that he lift her up so that she could see over it. They now flicked back to Aziraphale, still absolutely glowing as he was and felt her own smile widen. “We are, absolutely” she agreed. “And you too, I see, also…”

Aziraphale turned back again, “Of course, I-,” he stopped as he caught the lilt of her eyebrow, the knowing quirk of her lips and she had to try hard not to laugh as she watched him blush. “Oh… Quite.” He straightened then, metaphorically as well as literally, and met her gaze head on. “Well, yes. I suppose I am, but then,” he only paused ever so slightly, “I suppose I just love him so very much, how could I not be proud of him?”

Anathema felt the warmth rush through her and knew that, this time, this was all her own and not an overspill from him. Thank goodness for that! She smiled, happily, at him, “That’s _wonderful_. Have you told him?”

Aziraphale’s answering smile was a little coy, but very satisfied, “Daily.”

And now, she was so proud of _him_! “And?”

A little of his joy dimmed at that and he flicked a quick glance out into the garden where Crowley was holding Iris on his hip and pointing out at the hills around them. He turned back and poked at his scone. “And… it helps him, I know it does, but well…” the disappointment was tangible.

“Aziraphale,” she reached out, took his hand and waited until his eyes were back on hers. “This is good. You don’t want to be his rebound.”

He nodded at her, squeezed back, “I absolutely don’t, no.”

“You have as much time as you need. Now.”

“We do, you’re right.”

“And…” she paused, suddenly worried, “you’re happy like this anyway? Just letting it all happen?”

Her heart fell to beating properly again as his smile turned warm and natural once more. “I am, actually. Very.”

“And,” she almost didn’t dare to ask, “Crowley?”

Again, a pause. Again, a flick out to the garden and the demon and the child who were now laughing at a blackbird splashing around in a puddle. “He is too. I’m _sure_ of it. Sometimes I see flashes of how he was when we first met, when he was so free and unfettered and just joyful about everything,” Anathema looked too and admitted to herself that he was a completely different being, out there with her daughter and without both his scowl and his glasses. “He lost a lot of that, you know, over the years, I suppose we both did. Those moments became so much more precious, so seldom seen. Now, I’m hoping we might get more of them. Both of us.”

She nodded; she was sure they would. “Does he talk much?”

Aziraphale looked back at her, “About Gabriel? About anything important?” his smile went a little brittle. “No.”

She nodded. “And the nightmares?”

This time, his glance into the garden was a shade furtive and Anathema realised what a privilege it was to be allowed into their private circle like this. “Still, yes,” he admitted quietly. “Most nights, to be honest. Although,” he cast her a quick look. “I have started sleeping in his bedroom with him and that seems to help, it means that I can settle him before he really gets worked up.”

His eyes held hers, as if he was very keen on her understanding it all. “But you’re not…?” She almost said _intimate_ , but then she remembered her own words on the matter and knew how very wrong that would have been. Luckily, Aziraphale knew her mind anyway.

“No.”

The back door burst open then, forcing Aziraphale to lock away the disappointment that had been washing over his expression, although Anathema was certain that Crowley had spotted it anyway. Iris bustled straight in, her boots leaving a muddy trail on the floor as she hastened to Aziraphale’s side, taking his fingers in hers and tugging him encouragingly. “Bird!” she told him enthusiastically, pointing with her other hand towards the garden. “Wet!”

Aziraphale laughed and Anathema felt his joy. “Really?” He echoed back to her. “There is a wet bird in our garden?”

Iris nodded so enthusiastically that her glasses slipped a little down her nose. “Yes! Come…” she tugged again, and he swept easily to his feet, letting her tug him out into the garden and down the path to the puddle, the door clicking closed behind them.

Anathema looked up at Crowley and felt his wave of horror at being left alone in the kitchen with her. She hid a smile as he turned away, busying himself with tidying up the already-tidy worktop, the flush to the tops of his ears only possibly due to the cold day. 

“You have a lovely daughter,” he told the kettle, and Anathema knew how much it had cost him.

She smiled and glanced back out of the window where angel and child were both stood with their hands on their knees watching the blackbird bathe. “We do, yeah.”

Easy topics of conversation exhausted for him, Crowley turned to the work top with gusto. Wiping down clean surfaces and moving objects from one place to another. She straightened up a little, “Hey Crowley, I meant to say-” and was stunned into silence as he whirled around on her, his extraordinary eyes wide and beseeching, his entire posture screaming his discomfort.

“No, please don’t.”

She could only blink. “What?”

He squeezed the damp cloth in his hand so tightly that it dropped a little water onto the floor at his feet, but his eyes remained fixed on her. “What happened in the bookshop. You don’t have to say anything about it. The only reason any of you were even there was because of me. It was my shit that you were drowning in – of course I was going to be the one to get you out of it.”

She stared at him and blinked again, surprised, even after all that Aziraphale had told her, at the well of guilt he carried within him. She shook her head; made sure her smile was warm and real. “Well, that’s not really true, is it? And of course we absolutely owe you our lives, and, more importantly, Iris’ life, but – I was just going to say how good the scones were! Aziraphale says you made them?”

He stared at her. She could almost see his heart hammering away under his shirt and she realised, then, how little he blinked. “Oh,” the flat stare prevailed. “Right. I did, yeah.”

She shook her head. “I can’t make scones. Newt loves them so I’ve tried so many times and they always come out about this high,” she held her thumb and forefinger together. “And then Adam’s mom said to put baking powder in them, but then they made my teeth feel all funny, you know?” Her nose wrinkled at the memory. “You gonna give me some tips?”

He still didn’t move, didn’t shift a muscle and Anathema forced herself not to fidget, to keep everything about her chilled and easy and then, suddenly, he unwound. “It’s all about how much you handle them. They don’t like a lot of handling, and you should never roll them out,” he pulled his phone out of his back pocket and started tapping at the screen. “What recipe do you use? I’ve got a fool-proof one, seriously, even the angel would be able to make these...” 

Anathema smiled. As much time as they needed.

~~**~~


	25. INTERLUDE: Twelve Tuesdays, Parts 4 & 5

Tuesday 26th November 2024

It was early on a grey and blustery morning when the garage doors creaked open just a little, and a lithe but furtive demon slipped in.

The first thing that Bentley felt was relief, a huge and crashing relief. She’d thought, _worried_ , after that first reaction, that Crowley wasn’t going to want to have anything to do with her ever again. She’d felt him nearby, felt that he was different, but he hadn’t come and that had worried her. The second thing she felt though, was anger, a flare of irritation over all the time she’d spent alone; what had she done that had been so awful that he’d had to walk away from her when she was brought back to him? She wondered if this was where she finally got her explanation.

No explanation came, however. Crowley pressed himself into the corner of the garage and slid down the wall until he was resting on his heels and then silence slipped around them again.

He was different, Bentley could feel that, and the worry of it chased the anger away. What had happened to him these six years since they’d seen each other last? She wished she knew, she wished that the angel had told her more when he’d come to visit her those few months back.

It had been a strange day, the last time they saw each other. An ominous atmosphere, leaden skies, and Crowley had been anxious, fractious, _scared_. Demons had been to the flat, the angel’s bookshop had burnt, and Crowley had told her he had _gone_. They’d been trapped inside another fire, a burning ring this time, and Crowley had asked her to brave it, to take him where he needed to be to try and put everything right again. She had done, because she would always do anything he asked of her, but it had become harder and harder and harder to keep going.

In the end, she knew that it was all of him and none of her that kept them moving. That he was the one who was making her wheels turn and her music play and she knew it was the grandest last hurrah they would ever have together. They got to where they needed to be and there was the angel again, looking very different indeed, and then she felt it, she felt the moment that his attention slid away from her and onto the angel, felt his grip on her waver and then slip away. Just before the explosion came, she knew what was coming her way, she only wished he could have been there to help her through it.

It had been a surprise to find herself back on the street the next morning. She wondered what he had done in order to save her, couldn’t wait for him to appear all nervous energy and self-satisfied gloating. She knew that they would go on one of their ridiculously long drives together, the ones where he bemoaned that they lived on an island and promised her trips across the wilds of Asia, up the backbone of the Americas, trips where they would drive and drive and never stop, just the two of them.

He never came, though, and Bentley found herself splattered in pigeon droppings, dusted in grime, scratched by the handlebars of a child’s bike – ignominies that she had never had to suffer before – and it was then that she knew that he wasn’t coming back.

A long time passed before the angel arrived.

The angel. Bentley had always had a difficult relationship with that one.

It wasn’t jealousy, not really, she knew that he had been around long, _long_ before she’d arrived, but it was something – resentment maybe? What did she know? She was only a car.

She knew that Crowley loved the angel, but she knew that the angel made him unhappy as often as he made him happy, and that was what rankled her. _‘Let me out right this minute, Crowley!’, ‘You go too fast for me, Crowley,’, ‘What do you know, Crowley? You’re a demon!’_ Bentley had been there for them all, had felt the injuries they inflicted, had seen the aftereffects of many more slights and rows and fall outs over the years. What was she supposed to feel about the being that caused her beloved owner so much misery, hand in hand with so much joy? She didn’t understand what the problem was. He either loved Crowley as she herself did, or he didn’t. Simple as that.

But then he’d turned up and slipped into her passenger seat, sitting and staring at the empty space behind the wheel, before collapsing into loud and messy sobs. Bentley felt the miracle he used to shield them both from prying eyes and they sat there together, the angel sobbing, the car wondering what had gone so terribly wrong whilst she had been wherever it was that cars went to when they exploded.

Eventually, the angel had calmed enough to attempt an explanation to her. He told her that Crowley was gone, destroyed, obliterated by the very angels and demons he had always hated and feared. Throughout the entire stilted explanation, the angel had continued to weep, quiet tears that rolled down his cheeks, but Bentley had been confused. Crowley wasn’t _gone_ , he wasn’t _destroyed_. Something was very, very wrong, yes, but he wasn’t lost to them forever – she could feel it. She wondered why the angel couldn’t feel it too.

The angel explained that he would look after her now, had asked some kind men to come and take her somewhere safe and warm. The men had come, and they had admired her and cleaned her and fixed her scratches and told her how beautiful she was, but they never drove her, they never loved her. She sat in a warm and quiet garage with a load of vacuous, over-priced, carbon fibre slivers – and waited.

And waited.

Her hopes had been raised when the angel had suddenly appeared by her side one night, flustered and searching and asking her if Crowley had been to see her, but then he’d vanished again and Bentley was left to wait once more, right up until the moment that she was loaded on to the bed of that truck and she knew that she was going home.

It had been a surprise though – an unpleasant one at that. Crowley had never felt right from the moment he stepped outside the cottage. It was him, oh, it absolutely was him, but something was off, something did not sit right – and then he had just turned and walked away from her.

_‘He doesn’t remember us,’_ said the angel. Well, that would make sense. But why? And for how long? And how could he possibly hope to remember anything if he never came to see her?

But, on a bleak morning in November he did come, and he sat in silence and watched her, and she sat in silence back again, watching him and waiting, and knowing that it would all, eventually be alright again.

“I know you’re my car,” after a couple of hours of nothing, he spoke to her, his voice so wondrous after all this time. “But – I don’t remember anything of what we did together.”

_It’s okay,_ Bentley thought to herself, _I can remember for both of us._

“I’m not even sure that I could drive you, not after all this time.”

_You could,_ she knew that for a fact. _You always could._

He sat there all day, not saying another word and, as his form disappeared into the darkness of his corner, he finally pushed to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Not today. I just can’t.”

She wasn’t bothered, though, not now she knew that he _would_.

___

It took another week in the end. Another grey morning and suddenly he was there. No creeping about this time, the doors of the garage flung open and her driver’s door popped open with only a thought. It seemed to take him by surprise that she knew his intentions, that she could read him even if he couldn’t read her, but it also seemed to bolster his nerve. “You old minx, you,” he chided her gently, and slid himself into his seat.

He gripped the wheel and took and deep breath, his anxiety palpable. “Look,” he said, obviously forcing himself through this moment. “I don’t know how this-”

He broke off as Bentley roared into life and threw herself into reverse, skidding out of the garage as the hands on her wheel tightened in shock. Gravel sprayed across the front of the cottage as she found first gear and opened her throttle as wide as it would go. She knew him, she knew herself, and she knew exactly what she needed to do for them both. Her engine roared as she burst out of the gates and down the lane away from the cottage, aware, through her rear view mirror, of the angel watching from an upstairs window, a smile on his face.

___

It was dark when they returned. Almost light again actually.

Crowley parked her in front of the cottage this time, at a jaunty angle which meant that he would be able to see her from any of the windows at the front of the house. He patted her roof as he slid out and sauntered towards the door of the cottage with something like his previous swagger in view. Bentley was pleased with herself for that.

The door opened as he approached, spilling a rectangle of warm light out onto her bodywork and there was the angel. “Alright?” the tone was light, even if the sentiment behind it wasn’t.

“Yeah, course,” Crowley drawled, and lifted a bottle for the angel’s perusal. “Got you this.”

“Oh, Rock Rose gin,” he exclaimed happily. “You have had quite the drive. I bet you’re tired now.”

Bentley didn’t hear the reply as Crowley moved further into the house, but she knew that, more than anything, _happy_ was what he was. It seemed that the angel knew that too, as, just before he closed the door once more, cradling the bottle of gin to his chest, he winked at her and blew her a kiss and she thought that maybe the three of them might get along out here together just fine after all. 

~~**~~

Tuesday 24th December 2024

It really was a lovely tree. That special, just-cut smell, dark green needles, a perfect cone shape… Exactly as any tree owned by two supernatural beings should look. It had been carefully and artistically decorated too, a selection of simple, glass baubles, red, gold and green, hanging in symmetrical precision, spinning gently back and forth in the drafts of an old cottage.

Interspersed in all the careful, designer chic, there was a more eclectic arrangement of decorations: tiny paper books, Victorian tin dogs, a couple of egg box Christmas trees, six (well, five actually) Harrods chocolate baubles. It was almost as if two beings with completely opposed aesthetics had coordinated to create a tree which appealed to them both – which is, of course, exactly what had happened.

It made a nice change, as well, to be able to sit and watch the tree instead of the blank wall it stood in front of. The twinkling lights, the baubles drifting backwards and forwards, reflecting a wide-screen view of the room beyond in lurid jewel-like tones, the rather familiar looking angel perched at the top, the two carefully wrapped gifts sitting side by side right underneath. Well, it wasn’t the view that Sofa had been used to out of the window of the Waterloo flat, but really, this was one hundred times better.

She had been convinced, at first, that something dreadful had befallen her Crowley, and that he would never be back to sit on her again. She’d had a long wait, weeks and weeks in a silent flat still streaked with the blood from Gabriel’s assault, and then, finally, the sound of the door below opening, voices on the stairs, and there he was, whole and healed, and feeling, to her, so much more assured than he had ever been before and with a different angel (Alex? Aziraphale? Sofa wasn’t sure, but as long as it wasn’t that total knobhead Gabriel, she was happy) at his side.

They’d started packing things up, a couple of bags from the bedroom, a box from the kitchen, utilitarian items – there wasn’t much else anyway. The TV came down from the wall, an obscenely expensive coffee machine from the kitchen counter and then, “Are you sure that there is nothing else here you want to take?” the angel had asked, and Sofa had felt a strange kind of pain ripple through her stuffing.

The pause had been long, and then, almost unconsciously, long fingers drifted out to trace along her back, the first time he had touched her in weeks. “Well…” but his voice had been quiet, cautious.

The angel stepped closer, his neat hands smoothing along Crowley’s arms, squeezing his free fingers tightly. “You can bring it along, if you like,” he’d offered softly.

Sofa caught the anxious glance that was thrown the angel’s way. “But what if there isn’t room?”

The angel had smiled, “We will make room,” and that had been that.

Sofa had still had to endure another week in the silent flat on her own, and then a rather dreadful journey squashed into the back of a huge truck, but finally, she had been placed in the centre of an airy, open-plan, dual aspect lounge, with a kitchen leading off the back, a fine inglenook fireplace to the side, a lot of dusty old books _everywhere_ , an angel she approved of, and a demon she rather loved. What could have been better?

The weeks had passed by happily. At least a portion of every evening was spent with her demon lounged across her in some configuration or other, the angel in his wing-backed chair, nose in a book. The eighties comedies were back, plus some quaint British sixties and seventies classics which Crowley had just discovered. It was Heaven to have him back with her, and so much happier than he’d ever been before, it was wonderful that Sofa could just relax with him and enjoy his TV choices, rather than constantly trying to bolster his ragged self-esteem or assuage his raging doubts. It wasn’t plain sailing at all, both he and the angel had their moments, but it was _better_ – and Sofa was more than content with that.

So, here she now was with a tree to look at, and how lovely was that? She and Crowley had never had a Christmas tree before. She wondered where he was, however, it seemed to be very late in the evening and he and the angel were not ones for the night life. She couldn’t help starting to worry that perhaps everything was not alright, Crowley had never mentioned to her what had happened to that twat Gabriel, Sofa couldn’t help but worry that perhaps he had returned to hurt her demon again…

Suddenly, a familiar throaty roar filled the night and Sofa felt her springs settle in relief. Twin arcs of light cut through the dark outside and then everything fell silent once more. Sofa waited and finally the door burst inwards and the conversation washed over her. “-they didn’t need to though, that’s all I am saying.”

“Let them have their fun, angel,” Crowley’s fingers trailed over her back as he drifted past in a silent greeting. “You spent days choosing their gifts, are you going to deny them the same pleasures?”

“Well, no,” the angel, _Aziraphale_ , not Alex, passed in front of her and deposited a brightly coloured gift bag, stuffed full of interesting bulges, in the corner next to the window. “I suppose not, but I just worry that they have enough money.”

“They have plenty of money, since you regularly interfere with their bills,” Crowley’s voice was coming from the kitchen at the back. “Now, stop fretting and tell me what you want to drink, I’m dying here.”

“Pfft,” Aziraphale was waving a hand to draw the curtains and bank up the fire, “You drank plenty this afternoon, dear boy.”

“And then I sobered up to drive home. So, yeah, _dying_. What do you want? Mulled-shite? A proper red? Something a bit stronger?”

Sofa saw the indulgent smile that the angel threw back towards the kitchen, even as he shook his head. “Something stronger,” he called back. “You choose.”

There was a few moments of clinking and cupboard opening whilst Aziraphale disappeared upstairs and then they both returned at the same time, Crowley from the back with a tray of glasses and Aziraphale from the hallway in tartan pyjamas and a battered old dressing gown.

Crowley laughed as he set the tray down on the table in front of the fire, “You didn’t waste much time getting comfy,” he ribbed, and then, with a snap of his fingers, he was dressed in black silk pyjamas himself, his feet wrapped up in cashmere socks.

Aziraphale smiled as he perused the drink-spread before him. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he offered. “I think we deserve to be cosy in front of the fire, don’t you? Now, what have you brought us?”

Crowley joined him, pointing as he spoke. “Disaronno and cranberry, warm, mulled-shite with brandy, Baileys and ice, whisky and orange and,” Sofa watched him throw a glance sideways before he spoke, “Snowballs.”

“Snowballs!” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up at that, as Crowley must have suspected they would. “How lovely! Can we start on those?”

“Absolutely,” Crowley snagged one of the glasses off the tray, dropping the cherry from it into Aziraphale’s. “I thought you might.” He flopped backwards then, pressing his back into one of her corners, kicking his feet up along her length and sighing in relief as he took a sip and yanked off his glasses. “Ahh… that’s better.”

Aziraphale didn’t move though, not even to seize upon the added gift of an extra cocktail cherry, instead, he stayed standing in the gap between Sofa (and Crowley) and the tree, looking down on them in a slightly awkward manner. Sofa felt Crowley tense just a little. “Angel? You alright?”

He nodded and smiled and fidgeted and then glanced at Sofa’s other length and then back to Crowley and finally spoke. “I was wondering if it would be okay to sit with you tonight, dearest? Since I wasn’t planning on reading?”

Sofa felt Crowley swallow at that and would have laughed, if she could, at the speed with which he shifted along a little to make some room. “Sure, course, here, hang on…”

There then followed a few minutes of shuffling and manoeuvring, of pulling the table closer and adjusting the angle of the TV and then, finally, they were settled, Aziraphale with his legs stretched out and his back against hers, Crowley at right angles to him, his head pillowed in the angel’s lap as he lay on his side and still managed to sip his drink. Aziraphale exhaled happily and gently rested a hand on Crowley’s ribs and Sofa felt his happiness as it washed through her, filling her with happiness too.

After taking a large mouthful of his snowball, Aziraphale picked up the remote control from Sofa’s cushions and turned to the lounging demon. “Are you sure, my dear?” Sofa could hear the trepidation in his voice, “You really don’t have to, you know.”

With a dramatic grimace, Crowley downed the rest of his Snowball and leaned over to snag the whisky and orange from the tray. “’S’fine,” he seemed happier with his new drink. “I know you wanted to watch it, it won’t bother me, it’ll be a laugh anyway. Watch away.”

Still, however, Aziraphale didn’t press any buttons and awake the sleek flat screen, it seemed to Sofa that he was still fretting over something. He sighed and the hand on Crowley’s ribs pressed slightly. “Are you sure you won’t find it, you know… _painful_?”

“Painful?”

Sofa winced at the way that Crowley bent his body to be able to look up at the angel’s creased forehead.

“Painful as in it’ll really hurt, like _really_ hurt? Or painful as in just too damn funny?”

The press on his ribs turned into a swat, and Crowley sniggered, even as Aziraphale continued over the top of him, “Really painful!” Sofa could hear the genuine anxiety in his voice. “I don’t know, Crowley! Are you sure that you will be okay? I mean, it’s not like we could go to a church and do this for real without it really, really hurting you!”

Crowley seemed to notice then how much this really was upsetting Aziraphale and Sofa felt his mirth melt away, felt it replaced by something far warmer and more real. “It’s okay,” his voice was so soft as well, a tone Sofa had never heard him use with Gabriel. “It’s just TV, angel. And I want to watch it with you.”

Aziraphale smiled and rested his palm on the demon’s cheek for a moment, before finally pressing the button on the remote. “Well, if you are sure. And you will tell me? If it hurts in any way?”

Turning back to the TV and a huge mouthful of drink, Sofa felt Crowley nod. “Sure.”

The midnight mass was not Sofa’s idea of quality viewing. Crowley’s either, if his soft snores ten minutes in were anything to go by. Aziraphale had chuckled then, and freed the precarious glass from his fingers before miracling a blanket to cover his long frame and tucking him in.

“Just you and me, then dear girl?” the angel remarked to the sofa who couldn’t reply, but was marginally surprised at being addressed directly. “And all those drinks! Goodness me, however will I manage?”

Manage he did, even if they added to his already significant level of intoxication. Sofa had a good night, though. The midnight mass was far more interesting once Aziraphale started swearing at every mention of Gabriel’s name (personally, Sofa was appalled that the Almighty would ever have trusted such a dickwad with such an important message) and changing the words of the carols into versions that would have made even the cheekiest of choir boys blush, but finally, it was over and Sofa was a little upset in thinking that she may be left alone again for the rest of the night.

Aziraphale didn’t seem keen to move, though. He simply sat and sipped his drinks and watched the tree lights, with one hand drifting softly through Crowley’s hair and the other, when it wasn’t holding a glass, stroking Sofa’s buttery leather.

“Merry Christmas my dear girl,” he eventually remarked, as the sky around the cottage started to lighten just a little. “And thank you. I don’t think you will ever be able to comprehend just how very, very grateful I am for the way you have looked after him for all of these years.”

Well, it hadn’t always been enough, and Sofa would always regret that she couldn’t have done more to save him from the hurt he lived through, but comprehend? Yeah, she thought she could, actually. It was probably something similar to the thanks she owed the angel for bringing him back to her when she knew that all he had wanted to do was run as far as he could from all of those dark and twisted memories wound up in that flat. Wound up in her.

He hadn’t though – run, that is. He’d faced up to some of it, the start of it, and that had saved Sofa. Now, it was her job to help save the two of them as they faced the rest of it all together. It wouldn’t all be plain sailing, she knew that, but she also knew _them_ , and their love, and dared to hope that maybe it would all be okay. In the end.

_Merry Christmas angel_ , she thought back to him and it seemed that, just maybe, he’d heard her.

~~**~~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all - if you have read any of my ANs before, then you will know that I have a bit of a problem in writing fluff. 
> 
> However, in writing these Tuesdays, it has just occurred to me that I don't really know what fluff actually looks like in the eyes of the 'average' reader. So, I would be very grateful to you if you could possibly shout up with your opinions as to whether any of these 12 Interludes actually hit the fluff mark or not? 
> 
> So far, I would say not, as each one has at least a tint of angst to it - but what do I know? I only write it and I am very interested in hearing the opinions of those who read.
> 
> Thanks ever so,  
> Indigo x


	26. INTERLUDE: Twelve Tuesdays, Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi - a few things today :) 
> 
> Firstly, so sorry about missing a post yesterday, my day ran off from me.
> 
> Secondly, thanks so much for all the feedback on fluff. I have learnt that fluff is a subjective description and that suits me fine :) I have chosen the tag 'Eventual Fluff' to go with this work.
> 
> Thirdly, fair warning that the fluff has taken a little holiday for the next three Tuesdays or so. It will be back. Happy ending guaranteed, remember. :) 
> 
> Fourth, WARNING in this section for dark thoughts and a panic attack.
> 
> Fifth, I should never have tried to put a chapter prediction on this, I always underestimate. It will be at least thirty chapters now.
> 
> Sixth, I hope you enjoy it anyway, and have a great Thursday whatever you are doing :)
> 
> ______________________________________

Tuesday 28th January 2025

Aziraphale had never really liked Januarys. From the earliest times years were counted and the new ones marked and celebrated, the angel had struggled to join in with the human cheer. It wasn’t like he wasn’t happy with his lot, quite the opposite, truth be told. It was rather that he was _very_ content with his life as it stood and that he had realised that a new year would take him one step closer to the End Times, one step closer to the point when his and Crowley’s paths would diverge for ever more. That was certainly something for him to get maudlin over.

Crowley had never really understood. He’d always thought it was a wonderful excuse to drink a huge amount of alcohol and told Aziraphale that the humans were just so dreadful with the excess of it all, that he could have a fabulous holiday and still end up with a commendation or three when everyone went back to work. But then Crowley had always been able to find the bright side of any situation.

Had.

Past tense.

Was that something else that he’d now lost?

Aziraphale really couldn’t say.

So, yes, Januarys had always proved hard for Aziraphale to navigate, but this one actually seemed a little worse than usual.

He sat in his bedroom, wrapped in a blanket against the cold of the impinging dawn, staring at the icy rain that splattered his windows and thinking of the demon sleeping across the landing from him. Aziraphale had been in there with him, not half an hour ago. Not sleeping, not really, but drifting maybe, dozing. Holding Crowley close and trying not to let the dark thoughts about how _this_ year might end up, press too firmly against his own heart.

Maybe it had been that preoccupation about what was in store for them which had led to him missing the tell-tale signs of the start of a nightmare. Or maybe this one came on far quicker than usual, Aziraphale wasn’t sure, but whatever the cause, his thoughts had been far away when Crowley had cried out for the first time.

In the gloom of his own silent room, Aziraphale shuddered as the memories of Crowley thrashing and shouting, the pain sharp in his voice, the fear clear in his frantic attempts to escape, swam around and around his head. Aziraphale had done his best, as he did every single night, but this one had been a bad one and it had taken an inordinate amount of stroking and soothing and shushing until Crowley had even started to settle – and it had torn Aziraphale apart.

_“Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, dearest, no…”_

The echo of his own desperate pleas mocked him. Crowley hadn’t heard him, he’d been too swamped in the fear, and how _wrong_ was that? Crowley had always been the bravest of them both, always been willing to _try_ , to take that risk, to make that gamble. Yes, he’d been scared at times, only a fool wouldn’t have been frightened by what Hell could, and did, do to their demons, but he’d never been prepared to allow that fear to swallow his joy in life. His inexhaustible optimism. Unlike Aziraphale of course, who had cringed and bowed and hidden and denied, and still never felt safe from Heaven’s possible recourse. Crowley had held his head high and pushed through it all, so how heart-breaking was it that he was so crippled by the fear now?

But it wasn’t just that, though, and Aziraphale closed his eyes in shame as he acknowledged that in the darkness of his own mind. No. It was actually worse.

Crowley had always had nightmares, _always_ , ever since the very first night that he had allowed himself to sleep in Aziraphale’s company. Maybe they hadn’t arrived as frequently as they did now, but they had always been there. The act of Falling, the pain that had followed, the abandonment, the cursory discardment by the one being he had loved above all others, had all featured heavily. There had been other stars too, of course, the Spanish Inquisition, for one, Hiroshima, when Hell had forgotten to tell him to leave, the genocide at Carthage… he seemed to collect new nightmares as part of his job, but the they had always been there, always plagued him.

So now, on these nights in the cottage which was supposed to be their sanctuary, Aziraphale hated himself for even thinking it, but, with every nightmare that surfaced, he was hoping of more of the same, hoping to hear Crowley begging the Almighty to save him, crying out with the pain of Falling, vomiting out the memories of massacre or bloodshed against the humans, shaking in the echo of Beelzebub’s violence towards him, because that would have proved that, somewhere deep inside, _he could remember_.

But that never happened, none of it ever raised its head again. _Never._ It was always Gabriel, Gabriel hurting him, Gabriel threatening him, Gabriel telling him how useless and worthless and pathetic he was. And it was awful, firstly, because it just _was_ , Aziraphale despised seeing Crowley in fear and remembered pain, but secondly, because it proved, over and over again, how lost the Crowley of Aziraphale’s history really was.

And, Aziraphale, selfish, self-absorbed angel that he was, _missed_ him – and how vile was that of him, to completely disregard the wonderful friend he actually had at his side, in wishing for a ghost of his past?

Incredibly, though, it was all _even worse_.

All of that, every dark and unpleasant thought that Aziraphale possessed, was completely over-shadowed by the fact that all of Crowley’s desperate fears _just may come to pass_. They had never heard what had become of Gabriel after the showdown in the bookshop; they’d never really spoken about it either. It had been five months, plenty of time for him to have been found by Uriel, returned to Heaven and given the opportunity to plot their final destruction for one last time. At any moment of their week, he could suddenly appear amongst them once more, destroy them both, enslave them both, force them to destroy each other – and it was blatantly clear to Aziraphale that nothing either of them could do would allow them to even make a satisfactory start on saving themselves.

Crowley was doomed, eventually, to end his days on Gabriel’s terms and as Gabriel’s plaything, whist Aziraphale was doomed to have to watch. And given all of that, what was the point of _any of it_?

He could be on his way already. He could be in the garden. _He could already be in Crowley’s room, right now, making those damned nightmares a reality._

The thought of it injected liquid terror straight into Aziraphale’s brain and stole the air from his lungs. He gasped out loud, then quickly shoved his fist into his open mouth, frightened of waking Crowley from his hard-fought-for sleep, and tried to corral his desperate breathing.

He closed his eyes and gripped the arms of his chair so hard that he could hear the wood splintering beneath him. He kept trying to draw a proper breath, trying to suck in enough oxygen to combat the roaring in his ears, completely losing sight of the fact that he didn’t even need to breathe, but it was impossible to inflate his lungs at all over the pressure of the iron bands that seemed to have wrapped themselves around him. He threw his blanket off, tried to claw open the neck of his pyjamas, but it was hard to concentrate on anything when his heart was threatening to hammer straight out of his chest. He spluttered out a choked and dreadful laugh – well, wouldn’t that just save Gabriel a job?

Gabriel… was he there? Had he already disposed of Crowley? Was this _him_ now? Crushing Aziraphale’s larynx? Forcing his limbs to tremble, the sweat to drip down his spine? Nausea swirled within him and he gasped for breath, snatching at the air around him, gulping in huge mouthfuls that couldn’t get past the swelling in his throat.

The pain in his chest hit him then, right in the centre, right under his sternum and he slammed a fist into its epicentre, hoping to dislodge it, but only making it worse, a vicious, driving stabbing that made him want to scream in agony, but the sounds were lost with his air. He slid to the floor, scrabbling desperately to keep to his chair, but only managing to knock it further away from him.

Was this it? Was this how he was finally destroyed? Sweating and shaking on the floor of his bedroom? Gabriel no doubt watching him from the hallway, Crowley’s blood on his hands, Crowley’s broken body in the bed where he should have been so safe? If Aziraphale had the breath, he would have sobbed at the desperate futility of it all.

The pain in his chest was growing, he could picture his heart swelling in size, expanding further and further until, eventually, it would simply explode, bursting out through his chest and ripping him apart from the inside out.

He was dying, there was no way he could feel like this and not be dying. He gasped and writhed on the floor, curling up around the pain, the fear hammering through him. He was dying. It was all over… he’d failed Crowley, he’d failed at everything.

“Aziraphale!”

The voice fought through the blanket of his panic, poking a hole just large enough for Aziraphale to hear the terror in it and know that this was his confirmation of Gabriel’s attack. The hands on him weren’t Gabriel’s though, he didn’t think that Gabriel had ever touched him before and certainly not like this, never like this, soft and reverent, gentle but firm.

“Aziraphale, angel, angel _please_. It’s okay, it’s all okay, just breathe with me, can you do that? Can you feel me breathing? Like this, like this, feel me, breathe with me, come on, come on…”

The roaring in his ears was making it hard to concentrate on anything other than the terror in that voice but then there were fingers tight on his wrist and his palm was flat against cool skin and a bony sternum. It was moving as well, rising and falling, far too fast to be normal, but so much slower than his own gasping attempts.

“Feel me, feel me,” the voice repeated, low and panicked. “Don’t leave me alone, please don’t leave me. You’re okay, you’re safe. In… and out. You feel that? In… and out. In… and out. Don’t go.”

_In… and out._

_In… and out._

Aziraphale could feel it, but could he do it? Could he fight through whatever it was that Gabriel was doing to him? And where was the Archangel now? Why wasn’t he hurting Crowley? Why was Crowley here when he could be running as far and as fast as possible?

Maybe Crowley hadn’t realised that they were under attack… maybe Gabriel was hiding and watching and laughing and waiting until Aziraphale was dead before he struck. He squirmed in the arms that held him, writhed and twisted, tried to see through the swirling tunnel that surrounded him, tried to marshal his air, enough air, just enough to warn his dearest love.

“Gabriel…”

It was barely a croak, but it was all he had and, perversely, it didn’t have Crowley recoiling in terror and running away, if anything, the grip on him strengthened and a shaking hand stroked at his clammy temple. “No,” and what was that pressed to his forehead? “No, angel, he’s not here. He’s not. It’s just us and you just have to breathe through this, just breathe, come on now, you can do this. For me. Do it for me.”

For Crowley? What did he have to do again? It was impossible to think properly around the panic and the pain.

“Breathe with me. Feel me. Come on angel, _you can do this_.”

Could he? Crowley thought he could and Aziraphale trusted Crowley with everything he was. He could do this, he could reach out and feel Crowley and hold on with every ounce of his concentration. This was okay, Crowley had told him so, this wasn’t Gabriel, this wasn’t death, whatever it was. Crowley’s voice, his presence, was better than anything else he had, always, and so he grabbed at it like a life ring.

“In… and out,” he breathed and breathed and breathed and started to realise that the panicked edge to that voice coaching him was fading, as was the roaring in his ears and the awful pain in his chest. The grip on his larynx eased enough for him to be able to get a decent breath inside him and he was suddenly aware of the cold floor under his hips, the arms tight around his shoulders and the terrified serpentine eyes which were staring down on him.

“Crowley?” he’d wanted to say the words, but he still didn’t have the breath and so something embarrassing and illegible came out instead. It seemed to be enough for the demon whose fingers were still wrapped around his wrist in a crushing grip, though, and abruptly the wrist was dropped, swapped for two arms full of Aziraphale himself, picked up off Crowley’s knees as if he were nothing and held tight against that heaving chest, the demonic heart below thundering away in its own race for safety.

“It’s okay,” it really sounded as if Crowley were trying to convince himself as much as the shuddering angel in his arms but Aziraphale just hung on to that voice, hung on to that heaving chest. “Just keep breathing, angel, in and out, that’s it, in and out, you’re okay, you are.”

Was he? Were they? Had Gabriel ever been here? Aziraphale was beginning to foolishly wonder if he had…

The minutes ticked by as he continued to breathe with the chest he was crushed into, and his hammering pulse slowly calmed and the roaring in his ears faded to nothing and the sweat dried on his back.

As everything swam back into focus, he became aware that the icy rain was still hammering against the windows, even though the grey dawn had absolutely marked its arrival for the day. They were both sat on the wooden floor of his bedroom, Aziraphale in his flannel pyjamas, Crowley in nothing more than a loose pair of shorts, his skin speckled in gooseflesh.

Crowley was completely wrapped around him, a long leg either side of his, his arms holding him tight, folding him up under his chin and snug against his chest, if he let himself, then Aziraphale could feel quite safe like this.

“Okay?” The voice rumbled through the chest under his ear and Aziraphale could only nod, even though he had no real idea if he was or not. What in Heaven’s name had happened? Had they been attacked? And if so, who by? It was all a little too much still.

He froze then, as a kiss was pressed into his hair – was that the first time that Crowley had ever kissed him? – and the arms around him tightened even further. “What the fuck, angel? You scared the living shit out of me.” Another kiss and Aziraphale felt his cheeks flush with shame – what was he doing, making something else up for Crowley to fear? What was wrong with him?

“I’m sorry…” his fingers gathered up a large handful of the jersey material laid loosely around on Crowley’s thigh. “I really have no idea what happened. Maybe I fell asleep and had a disturbing dream?” He tried to pull away, but Crowley’s hold was iron-tight on him, and his silence led Aziraphale to believe that maybe the demon had a pretty good idea what had _really_ happened. Uncomfortably mortifyingly, so did Aziraphale.

“Anyway,” he was still shaking, his limbs felt like jelly, his head pounded, and his heart was fluttering unsteadily, but he tried to inject as much forced brightness into his voice as he could. “I really could do with a cup of tea. How about you? How about I go downstairs and you-”

“No.”

Aziraphale was startled at the volume in that one word. He felt Crowley take a long breath in and then out again, and then press yet another kiss in his hair, before: “Are you okay to get up?”

Aziraphale forced a scoff out of his dry mouth. “Why, yes, of course, I-”

“Good.” Crowley interrupted him and then unwound himself to standing, smooth and graceful and without letting go of Aziraphale at all, drawing him up too, supporting him as he wobbled through finding his feet and then, one arm around his shoulders, one hand tight in his, he led him out and across the landing.

“Dearest,” Aziraphale stumbled a little in his attempts to keep up. “Where are-”

“Bed.”

This time, Aziraphale stumbled in shock. “Bed? But, it’s morning now and I’m really not tired.”

They were in Crowley’s bedroom now, with its blackout blinds and thick carpet, huge bed and single potted fern in the corner. “We’re not sleeping.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale jammed the brakes on at that, staggering to a halt in the centre of the dolphin-grey carpet, a blush rising up his cheeks. “Crowley… my dear, I’m not sure that-”

“Or doing _that_ ,” Crowley sighed. “Get in.”

Still confused, Aziraphale let himself be handled onto the bed and pushed into the middle as Crowley followed him, shuffling them into a comfortable position and pulling the duvet over them both. “Here,” his voice was raw, ragged, and Aziraphale edged forward into his open arms, sliding his hands across the cold skin of Crowley’s ribs, laying his head on the edge of a collar bone and sighing in the relief of safety as he felt Crowley pull him close again.

They slid into silence once more, the hammering rain a distant backdrop as Aziraphale felt everything slowly, slowly unwinding inside him.

Crowley held him firmly as the morning swept on and their silence was finally broken by the sound of Aziraphale’s stomach rumbling loudly. Crowley swept his fingers up into the curls at the back of Aziraphale’s head and cradled him gently in one hand, pulling him closer to his chest. “I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he whispered, and Aziraphale felt his hot tears as they sprung up behind his eyelids.

Oh Crowley. His dearest, bravest, Crowley. “My darling,” he knew that the fear was evident in his tone, “I very much doubt that either of us would be able to stop them, should they decide to come for us.”

He felt Crowley’s furious exhale in his hair. “No. This is _our time_ , now, angel. Ours. Whatever we want it to be, remember? They aren’t going to spoil it for us again.” 

Aziraphale fell silent, the compulsion, the panic, that they were on borrowed time, that they were absolutely living down the last few minutes of their clock would not leave him, was lurking in his chest just waiting for Crowley to drop his guard and let it rear. He felt stupid, pathetic, ridiculous, all the things that Gabriel had always told him that he was – what on Earth did this brave, wonderful and resilient demon see in him? Wouldn’t he be better off on his own?

_“Don’t leave me alone, please don’t leave me.”_

Oh, they really were as desperately pathetic as each other.

“Hey,” Crowley’s arms tightened around him, rough enough to shock him from his heightening fears. “I can _feel_ you over-thinking, angel, _stop it_. This will be fine. It’s over for us now – we get to have our retirement in the country. This is fine. It will be fine.”

_Like a mantra_ , Aziraphale thought. Maybe if Crowley thought he said it enough, said it in just the right way, then it would come true. But Aziraphale knew better. They were living out their last days, the sky above them was just waiting to crash down onto their heads and his chest tightened and his pulse fluttered in response. He closed his eyes and fought it all down again.

So did that mean that they should be living every day as if it were their last? Maybe. Or maybe it made more sense for them to start getting used to being apart again? That seemed more prudent.

“ _Don’t leave me alone, please don’t leave me.”_

_Later_. Aziraphale burrowed his nose into Crowley’s bony chest, banishing the phantom voice from his head. _He would do that later_. For now he would just lie here and enjoy the warmth and try to pretend that it all wasn’t so nearly over. 

~~**~~


	27. INTERLUDE: Twelve Tuesdays, Part 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Continued themes of difficulties with mental health 
> 
> ________________________________________

Tuesday 25th February 2025

Anathema leaned forward in her seat once more and tried to see if she could spot anyone coming along the street towards the café where she waited in the little bay in the window. The pavement was empty, though, the time was already fifteen minutes past the designated meet time and Anathema had been worried enough about this suggested rendezvous _before_ it had turned into a no show.

Her eyes were still trained at the end of the road when she felt the slightest of shimmers run over her, a shiver almost, as if someone had walked over her grave, as the saying went. She just had the time to snap her eyes from the street and back into the café, when the door from the toilet at the rear opened and her coffee-date stalked in.

Six months she’d had to get to know Crowley now, and she felt, in all that time, that she had done a pretty decent job of stripping away all the pretence and screens, and had managed to discover the real demon inside. She felt that she knew an awful lot about him, now. For example, she knew that he was far, far nicer than he ever wanted anyone to know – but that he’d been far more comfortable in embracing that niceness as ‘Tom’ then he ever would be as Crowley, even a Crowley who didn’t even remember what Hell was actually like. She knew that he still felt lost, adrift, the empty space in his head where six thousand years of memories should be, a constant, cold pain. She knew that he loved Aziraphale, had loved him for millennia and, despite not remembering any of it, was unable to deny the love that simply lived within him. And she knew that, right now, in this moment, he was worried, incredibly, incredibly worried.

He looked the same as always, his hair perfectly tousled, his clothes impeccably styled and cut from the sleekest black. He reminded her of an orca, the silent way he glided around, the aura of danger he had, the edge of menace. The only difference was the accents of red instead of white. He slid into the seat opposite her and pushed his glasses up just a little further, completely ignoring the Americano she’d ordered for him. The only greeting he made was a quick nod.

“Crowley,” Anathema’s nerves were chewing her up. “What’s wrong? How is he?”

There was the slightest of pauses. For a glorious minute, Anathema wondered if he was going to tell her that everything was perfectly alright, that the only reason he was even there was to discuss a wonderfully elaborate surprise he was planning. A proposal even. But then she saw his gaze drop to the tabletop and his hands, which were trembling ever so slightly, knit themselves together in a Celtic knot and her heart sank.

“Err,” he shuffled awkwardly on his chair. “Yeah. Not that good. Not really.”

Anathema reached out and gripped his fingers; they were cold and the fact that he didn’t even try and twitch them away from her deepened her concern. “Right,” she made sure that her voice remained level, calm. “More panic attacks, then?”

Crowley shrugged and she got the distinct impression that he viewed coming here to see her, _asking_ to come here and see her, as a huge betrayal. And yet here he was – because he was _that_ worried about his angel. “He’s okay, you know, for a couple of days, a few maybe. But then,” another shrug, “something will get to him, frighten him, and it all starts again. The panic attacks, yeah, the anxiety. The rest of it all.”

Anathema leaned in a little. “Rest of it all?”

Crowley looked up at that, his glasses blank and impenetrable, but the rest of his expression so desperately bleak. The fingers under Anathema’s trembled just that little bit more. “Yeah, well, you know,” she watched him swallow. “He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t read. He doesn’t even want to _look_ at his books. He doesn’t go out. He rarely speaks except to tell me how better off I’d be without him. He doesn’t sleep. He just sits and stares out of the window, but it’s like he doesn’t see any of it.” He paused again, shook his head, his lips pressed in a tight line. “He’s just so _sad_.”

What could Anathema say to any of that? And it seemed that, once Crowley had started, he couldn’t stop the flow.

“And I’m trying with him, I really am. But if I’m good to him, if I’m nice to him, it makes him _worse_ , makes him go on and on about how he doesn’t deserve any of it at all, how he’s such a burden and I should just leave him to it, go off and get my peace.”

The fear of that was etched deep into his face.

“But if I _don’t_ spend every moment with him, bringing him drinks, making him food, getting him treats, fetching his books, just _talking_ to him, telling him what he is to me, then-”

He stopped then, eyes back on the table, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Anathema took pity on him, “Then you feel that he’s just drifting even further away?”

Crowley didn’t look up, but she saw his head nod. “Yeah.”

And again, what was she supposed to say to that?

She looked down at the crown on his head; such a vivid, unique colour. Had it been like that in Heaven? she wondered. What had he been like as an angel? She could picture him, pre-Raphaelite curls to his shoulders, Aziraphale often talked of his hair in their first millennia together, his height, his energy – he must have been an imposing angel. And bad enough to Fall? Worse than the angels who, over time, had done this to Aziraphale? Somehow, she thought not. He had been so wronged by the turning of time; they both had.

“And do you think that would help him?” she had to know where he stood on this, “If you left?”

He looked up again at that and she could imagine, through the slight gape to his mouth, how wide his eyes would be at the suggestion. But then he just stared at her, didn’t answer, let the seconds tick around, licked his lips slightly, held her gaze through the safety of his glasses. “I don’t know.”

Anathema’s stomach twisted; she had lived almost six years with an Aziraphale-without-Crowley, she knew exactly what Crowley leaving would do to the angel. “In what way?” she was impressed at how calm her voice sounded.

That was too much for Crowley, that point. His hands stayed where they were, but his gaze slid off to the table once more and she could almost hear him beating his thoughts into order. “All these years,” he whispered. “All the years we had together, and then these few apart and, you know, everything was _okay_. But now,” he shook his head and Anathema could see the bitter quirk to his lips. “I come back, and he instantly falls to pieces. Maybe if I did go – he’d be able to get it together again.”

“No,” she was relieved in a way, that his thoughts were still centred around Aziraphale, but still, they were dangerous considerations. And erroneous ones too, more to the point. “No,” she tugged on his fingers, waited for him to lift his head. “He was _not_ fine, those few years, you know. At times he was very depressed. He struggled so much. I had to fight to stop him from locking himself in that damn shop and wasting away. I think Iris was the only thing he surfaced for, sometimes.” She could feel the intensity of Crowley’s stare. “Yes, he missed you, _dreadfully_ , and the guilt he felt at the thought that you had died for him,” she shook her head. “But it wasn’t just that, it wasn’t just _you_. Heaven – they were his family, his purpose, his identity, and they had failed him. When push came to shove, they were so far from what Aziraphale had spent his life believing they were, it crushed him. And then, just to make it all worse, they _discarded_ him, made him perfectly aware of how disappointed they were in _him_ , how he had failed the Heavenly ideal so spectacularly. So, he was left, without any of that around him – nor you, the one being in existence he knew had always liked him for what he actually was.”

Shaking fingers pushed up under the rim of dark glasses and angrily wiped. “I never wanted to leave him alone, that day at the airfield!”

Anathema wondered how he _knew_ that. “I know you didn’t,” he replaced his hand with hers and she surreptitiously wiped away the moisture from his fingertips. “I’m not trying to stir guilt up inside you,” for goodness sake, both he and Aziraphale seemed to be drowning in guilt already. “I’m trying to make you see that Aziraphale has been struggling for a very long time already, this is not down to you.”

“No?” this time the sneer was real and cold, “But you’re saying that I pushed him over the edge, then?”

“No,” Anathema refused to let him intimidate her. “I’m saying that now, finally, _unconsciously_ , he feels safe enough to let go – and know that you will be there to catch him.”

She felt Crowley still at that, in the way that only angels and demons could, and she waited, let him process it all at his own speed. It was a lot – she knew that.

Eventually, his head dropped again, and she squeezed his hands tightly underneath her own. “I’m so sorry,” she really, really was. “This is so hard for you both,” but it was clear that he didn’t want her sympathy, he wanted her help. “What do you want me to do?”

He shrugged at that, and kept his eyes on the tabletop. “I don’t know. I just…” another despairing shake. “I’m out of my depth here. I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried everything I can think of and nothing is working. _Nothing_. And I just,” he seemed to hunch even further into himself. “I can’t lose him. I just… can’t. I’d never be able to live without him, not now.”

A spike of pain jabbed into Anathema’s heart. “Does he know that? Have you told him?”

She got a glance up for that, a quick one, before Crowley was bent over the table once more. “I’ve told him how important he is to me,” the words were mumbled out into the little café, Anathema almost had to rely on lip reading to get them. “But I’m not going to go all needy on him – he doesn’t need to cope with my shit when he’s struggling with all of his own.”

Anathema wondered about that. “So, where is he now? Where does he think you’ve gone?”

She couldn’t miss the flush of embarrassment then and knew she’d been dead on in how Crowley viewed this as a betrayal. “Ah, I told him I was walking into the village to get us some coffees. As long as I’m back within half an hour,” he glanced at his watch, “with some drinks – well, I bet he’s barely noticed that I’ve gone…”

Anathema very much doubted that – but she also realised that refuting it would be pointless. “Okay,” she wracked her memories, tried to remember everything she’d ever read or heard about mental well-being. Her Aunt, back in the States, was bipolar, which wasn’t the same, but maybe there were bits, maybe there was something she could use to-

Suddenly, Crowley’s hands were out of hers, his head was up but he was staring into nothing – it was as if he were listening, listening so very, very intently. He pushed back his chair, the legs screeching through Anathema’s nerves as they dragged across the tiles. “What?” she asked, her heart pounding, “What is it?”

“Something’s wrong,” Crowley was already heading to the toilets once more. “With the angel. Something is wrong – I can _feel_ it!”

“I’m coming with you,” Anathema grabbed onto his jacket, ignoring the strange looks they were getting as he barged his way into the gent’s. He turned on her, and, for a moment she felt that he was going to argue the point, but then his worry won out and he simply nodded, pulling her closer and gripping her tightly as he clicked his fingers and Anathema stumbled, reaching out to right herself on the back of their leather couch.

“Angel?” Crowley’s eyes were everywhere, he was almost crackling with tension as he spun on the spot, looking, listening, searching. “Angel!”

They both heard it at the same time, the dry, rasping breath from the kitchen at the back and Crowley simply vanished, even before she’d managed to turn herself around, and she could hear him materialising in the kitchen, his voice low and intense, the concern leeching out from every word. Almost dreading what she would see, Anathema followed him.

They were both on the floor, Aziraphale in his usual cream ensemble, but without his jacket and the ancient waistcoat had all of its buttons unfastened, the shirt underneath it too, baring a flushed and heaving chest below. It appeared that he had been curled up on his side, pressed into a corner of the cupboards, but now Crowley, sprawled in an uncomfortable tangle of his own legs, had hold of him and was lifting him up, pulling him close, folding them together, his voice a soothing balm of noise over the angel’s desperate, rattling breath.

“It’s okay, you’re okay, you’re safe, you’re safe.”

Desperate hands clutched at Crowley’s jacket, clawing their way into the fine linen, tugging frantically in the same way that angelic lungs were trying to pull in air that they didn’t even need.

“Breathe with me,” she watched as Crowley fumbled with the buttons of his own shirt, opening it up, unpeeling one of Aziraphale’s hands from his shoulder and then pressing it, palm flat, against the bare skin of his own chest. “Feel me. Breathe with me, angel, you can do this.”

It was so intimate, so deeply personal, that Anathema found herself walking backwards, moving herself out of their space, trekking back until the wall hit her shoulders and then she just slid down, crumpled in on herself until she was crouched on the floor, nothing to see but the breakfast bar and the legs of the dining table, forest-like, in front of her.

She could still hear though, the awful, rattling breaths, Crowley’s desperate monologue, she sat, and she listened, and she wished that there was something she could do.

Eventually, the heaving breaths eased, and Crowley’s words turned to murmurs of praise and Anathema could imagine him holding the angel so closely, stroking him so gently – how could this love not be approved of by the Almighty?

“Crowley?”

Anathema had never heard him sound so broken.

“I’m here. You’re alright, angel. It’s all fine.”

“You were gone.”

Her heart sank; poor Crowley, how much more guilt could he stand?

“I went for coffees, remember? To the shop in the village. I was going to bring back some pastries, too.”

“Ah, yes,” a shaky breath in. “I’m sorry, dear boy, I just…”

“I know. It’s fine.”

“I thought you would have been quicker and when you weren’t back, well, I wondered what had happened and I thought that… that… _he_ …”

Aziraphale’s words were starting to run together and his breath was starting to rattle again, and Crowley was back to soothing, Anathema could imagine his long fingers running across Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Shush, angel, it’s okay. I’m fine. You’re fine. He’s not here. He’s never been here. We’re safe here. We are.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay – I’m here, I’ll always be here, you don’t have anything to apologise for.”

A long breath in, almost a sob. “Why do you put up with me? Oh, I am such a burden to you! Doing this – all the time.”

“No. No angel, not a burden, never a burden. Not to me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“How is your head?”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it hurting still? Honestly?”

There was a pause, obviously Aziraphale deciding if he would lie or not and then, a defeated, “Yes. A little maybe.”

“Okay,” Anathema could hear rustling from the other side of the breakfast bar. “Can you get up?”

“Oh, oh… Crowley, dear,” he sounded so unsure. “My legs are shaking still, I think I might – oh!”

They appeared back in Anathema’s line of sight then, Aziraphale in Crowley’s arms, his face pressed into a dark shoulder. Crowley’s mouth set, his glasses gone, his expression wretched. “It’s okay, angel,” and there was _so much_ compassion in his tone, “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.” Throwing a final, desperate and imploring glance Anathema’s way, Crowley headed for the stairs at the front of the cottage and Anathema stayed huddled where she was, her mind whirling, her cheeks wet.

~~**~~

The dawn light was pale and washed out as Anathema sat on the sofa in Crowley and Aziraphale’s front room and scribbled more notes down from the article she was reading on her phone.

She hadn’t left since the drama of the previous afternoon, missing out on Iris’ swimming lesson was a small price to pay for trying to help her friends through this dreadful crisis, and was now sitting, cross-legged, under the blanket that Crowley had brought down for her as the afternoon light had slipped into evening.

“I’ll take you home,” he’d offered, appearing in the doorway, silent and dark, his glasses off, his face drawn and strained, bare footed, his trousers creased and crumpled, his shirt hanging open – Anathema could have sobbed for him.

Instead though, she had shaken her head at his offer. “Is he sleeping now?” She’d heard the low murmurs of their conversation in the bedroom above, heard when it had stopped, had hoped that the pair of them were getting some much-needed sleep. Crowley had just nodded, he’d looked exhausted. “Well, you go and get some sleep too. I can stay here tonight, and then Newt will come and get me in the morning. I don’t want you to have to leave him again – no matter how briefly.”

Inadvertently, she seemed to have triggered a fresh bout of guilt, but that, in turn just wiped out the final strands of Crowley’s resilience for the day. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice rough and strained.

“Of course. I’ve already spoken to Newt – it’s all set up.”

Crowley had nodded then and returned upstairs, surprising Anathema when he returned a few minutes later with pillows, a quilt and a blanket. “Help yourself to anything you find in the fridge, the angel’s not eating much at the minute. You got everything you need? You want me to miracle up some,” he gestured, vaguely, at her clothing, “you know?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she told him and smiled as warmly as she could. “You go and get yourselves some sleep, and I will see you both in the morning.”

He’d gone without another word, and Anathema had slept, surprisingly well considering, on the very comfortable sofa, but had awoken well before the winter dawn with a buzzing mind full of questions. How would she approach this if they were human? What could they do? How could she help? Would any human methodologies help, here? Any at all? And what of Heaven and Hell? Could anyone there help? Would they _want_ to? Could they be trusted? With so many questions and no answers at all, Anathema did the only thing that she could, and turned to the internet.

~~**~~

The day had turned washy, with a hint of sunlight trying to break through a covering of clouds. Anathema had made herself a coffee and a sandwich, and was just returning to the main living area after tidying away her mess, when Aziraphale wandered in from the hallway. He stopped when he saw her, and blinked a little – she wondered if he was trying to remember if he knew that she was there, or was just surprised to see her at all. She smiled at him and greeted him with a hug, drawing him to sit on the sofa as she did so.

“Hi,” he was warm to the touch and still wearing what looked like fifty-year-old flannel pyjamas, obviously straight from bed and a long sleep – she wondered if Crowley had helped him along with that at all. “It’s so lovely to see you, I haven’t seen you in so long – I hope you don’t mind me coming over like this.”

“Ah, no, my dear, of course not,” she could see him desperately trying to pull himself together. “I had no idea, though, I have been such a dreadful host!”

He tried to rise, and Anathema pushed him back a little, held his eyes, held his fingers. “Aziraphale,” he stopped his flustering at the tone of her voice. “Please do not be like this with me. We are friends. I know you, I care deeply about you. Crowley has told me that you are finding all of this so difficult, don’t try to hide away.”

For a moment, she feared that he was going to fight her, deny it all, lambast poor Crowley for his lies and his meddling and make it all even worse, but he didn’t, he just deflated in front of her, flopping backwards into the cushions of the sofa, letting out a long sigh and finding her dark eyes with his. “I am making such a dreadful mess of our new life together,” he told her, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I am ruining _everything_ , being so weak when Crowley needs me to be strong.” Anathema felt her throat tighten in sympathy. “He will leave me soon, I know he will, and then, where will I be?”

“He will never leave you.” There wasn’t much that Anathema was certain of at this point in their lives, but that, she was. He didn’t seem as convinced. “Look,” Anathema tapped the sheaf of paper she’d taken from his desk which was now at her side. “I have some ideas. Why don’t I make us both some herbal tea, and then we can have a look and see what you think? Okay?” she waited, her breath caught in her throat and then, bravely, thankfully, he nodded. She smiled again and made her way back to the kitchen.

~~**~~

“Well, dear girl, this really is fascinating,” it was late in the afternoon, and there was still no sign of Crowley, but Anathema had felt that things had gone as well as she could have hoped. Aziraphale had listened through all her explanations and read all of the websites she’d asked him too, but now was the time when he needed to give her his verdict on her plan, and suddenly she wasn’t anywhere near as confident as she had been before. “But, do you really think that any of this applies to someone like _me_?”

Anathema looked at him. “An angel, you mean?”

“Well, _yes_.”

She smiled, “Of course I do.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at her.

“Of course I do!” She wondered why this was so hard for him to understand. “ _You_ might not be human, but your body is. Look at the way that it has reacted to all this stress. A human reaction and so human methods of treatment. Sort of. It makes sense!”

Aziraphale’s expression crumpled, his nose turning up. “Stress? Stress? I haven’t been under stress, my dear! Not like the stress which some humans have to cope with. I mean, I mean,” he was wringing his hands and Anathema was worried about the can of worms she had opened up. “It’s not like I’ve lost my job and I’m fearing how I can feed my family. It’s not as if I’ve discovered that my beloved child has an incurable illness. It’s not as if enemy forces are approaching my village and I need to run and try and keep my entire family safe at the same time! That’s stress, my dear girl, not anything I have had to deal with!”

For a moment, Anathema just looked at him, wondering why the compassion of an angel did not extend as far as himself. She shook her head. “You lost your family. You lost your _beloved_. Then, you got him back, but you had to fight for it, always worried that he was going to be snatched away from you yet again.” Aziraphale flushed and looked away. “Then, you thought that you would be destroyed, both of you, or sent back to your bosses, or tortured for eternity. And now, just when you thought that you could have a peaceful recovery, here you both are, terrified that it’s all going to come back and start up again! Aziraphale –” she waited until his eyes were back on her, “how is that _not_ stressful?”

Aziraphale adjusted his position on the sofa, tugging at the sleeves of his pyjamas rather like he would tug at the bottom of his waistcoat. “Well, you make it all sound so very simple, and it’s not going to be simple at all, I fear.”

Sipping her cold tea, Anathema stopped, and thought and regrouped and tried again. “Okay, so, I don’t know… mending a broken bone then. Is that something you can do? Can you talk me thorough it? What you would do if I, oh, I don’t know, maybe broke my arm or something here?”

Tugging at his pyjamas again, Aziraphale ran his eyes over the familiar bookshelves on the wall. “Well, first of all, I would align the bones, fuse them back together. Then I would check for ligament damage, nerves, muscle, skin – all the soft tissues. I would heal them with a thought and that would be it, really. To be honest, my dear, it’s all very –” he stopped, almost swallowing his tongue and glanced her way from underneath his lashes. “Oh…”

She smiled, enjoyed her moment, “Ah, yes. I see. And you?” one eyebrow raised as she waited.

“Well,” Aziraphale was working hard on maintaining his scepticism, “I’m positive that it is going to be far more complicated than that.”

“We won’t know unless we try.”

“And maybe this will help with all the chemical reactions you mentioned, the serotonin and what not, but it’s not going to do anything about my thoughts, is it? My fears? The things that, despite what Crowley says, could still happen?” The panic was always so very close to the surface, Anathema realised, so very, very close.

“Possibly not, no,” she took his hand, squeezed his fingers, smiled at him; she needed him to get on board with all of this. “But it will make it easier for you to deal with those thoughts yourself. And the other things I talked about, the fresh air and exercise, doing things, going places, eating and drinking, sleeping and talking, doing a little tiny bit of all of that every day, well, that will help too.” He didn’t answer, just looked at their joined hands. “The fear isn’t going to go away – no one can make that happen – but you can help your body out, here, help your mind out. And then it will be easier to deal with everything else.”

Aziraphale sat. Anathema could see him going backward and forwards over everything they had discussed, everything she had shown him. She knew that she could always rely on him to consider everything meticulously, but the cloud in his expression was concerning. “It’s not just the fear, though, is it?” his voice was low, reluctant, his eyes on the skirting board at the far side of the room.

“I don’t know,” her mind was whirling, what had she missed? “But _whatever_ this is, we can cope with it. Remember, talking is one of the things that helps, why don’t we start now? I’m always happy to listen to you _whenever_ you want to talk to me, as is Crowley. You should know that about us.”

The silence pulled out, Aziraphale’s eyes stayed on the skirting board, and Anathema couldn’t help worrying at the abrupt dip in tone, she wondered what on Earth was coming next. “I can’t talk to Crowley about this.”

“Well,” her heart was thumping uncomfortably against her ribs. “I think you can talk to Crowley about _anything_ , to be honest. But, if you’d rather not, then that’s fine too, you can still talk to me.”

She waited, Aziraphale seemed to be choosing his words very carefully indeed. “You will think me very shallow. Very self-centred.”

“But I know you, and I know that you are not.”

Aziraphale sighed at that, her attempts at convincing him seemed to have fallen flat. “You have to understand, what it was like, for Crowley and I, for all of those years.”

“I think that I can. To an extent,” he’d told her so much about those times that she almost felt that she had been there too. “I understand that you relied on each other for all kinds of levels of friendship and support.”

“We did. And it was easy and natural,” his eyes finally met hers, “because we understood. We both understood what it was like to have to do things we didn’t always agree with. We both understood what it was like to work for powers who just did not understand the humans and Earth and how the whole thing worked, how wonderful it all was. We both understood what it was like to feel wrong, to miss out, to look at our brethren and wonder what was faulty in ourselves. We knew what it was like to be alone, and so we could appreciate what we had in each other.”

Anathema nodded, she had an uncomfortable feeling that she might have worked out where this was heading. “You have been together from the dawn of Earth – that’s quite some history. Of course you’re close to him, but it’s _more_ than that for the two of you, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale pondered. “Yes, we’re close. But that’s not it,” he leaned in a little, held her dark eyes in his wide, blue ones. “I _love_ Crowley, you need to understand that. That demon up there?” he pointed to the room above them, “I love him. Just now. Just as he is. Just today and tomorrow and _every_ day. But…” he swallowed – Anathema hoped she was wrong.

“But?”

“But…” his eyes flicked away, and Anathema’s heart sank. “I love the other Crowley more.”

She closed her eyes, “Aziraphale-” but the angel would not be silenced.

“I love what he knew about me, I love how he understood everything _because he could remember everything_. I knew what he knew, we’d discovered everything together – we’d discovered ourselves together, and now… well,” he swallowed again, his fingers started to shiver in Anathema’s. She opened her eyes and saw his bottom lip tremble just the tiniest bit. “I feel so very alone in at all,” he confessed. “Like I have been the only being alive from the dawn of time and that – well, it’s a heaviness I’m just not used to carrying yet. I _miss_ him. I miss _my_ Crowley… and without him, I am so very, very _lonely_.”

Silence fell between them – Anathema felt her heart crack open.

Aziraphale laughed, short and bitter, “See? I told you that it would disgust you.”

“Aziraphale,” why was her voice so choked? “I am not disgusted in you, of course I’m not.”

“And you still believe that this is something I can talk to Crowley about?”

“Look,” Anathema was not going to let this pull them both under. “You are _mourning_ here. Still – again – however you want to think about it. You are mourning the life you thought you might have with Crowley once you were free to follow your hearts. You don’t love one version of him over another version, you just love the only one there is, it’s the shared history that you are missing. Give yourself some time to adjust, be _kind_ to yourself, no one expects you to adjust to all of this in one day.”

Aziraphale barely seemed to hear her. “You know he has nightmares?” he was already moving on.

“ – Yes.”

“Well, that’s nothing new for him, you know, he’s had them his entire existence as a demon.” Did Anathema know that? She felt that maybe she did, or maybe she didn’t and it was just wretchedly obvious that he would. “And now, every night I lie awake and I wait for them to start and I hope, I _pray_ , that he will dream of the Fall, they were always the worst, you know. I pray that he will wake up thrashing and screaming and sobbing for the loss of the love of the Almighty – because _then_ I will know that the Crowley I really love is coming back. What kind of friend am I, what kind of _beloved_ , if I want him, _desperately_ want him, to remember all of that pain and fear and trauma and disgust he was forced to live with for six thousand years – just because I want him to understand me like he used to? _Know_ me like he used to?” Aziraphale looked up, his eyes a challenge. “Still not disgusted in me?”

Anathema shook her head, this was getting them nowhere and Newt would be arriving at any moment to take her home again. “Aziraphale. Don’t torture yourself like this. You don’t want him to have nightmares _at all_. You don’t love one version of him more than another – there _is_ only one version of him! You are mourning a future you have lost, replaced with another. Just because the second future will be just as wonderful, just as favourable, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t take some getting used to. All of this will. It’s not a magic act. It’ll take time and hard work to get through this – for both of you.”

Rather than being convinced, Aziraphale shook his head. “Crowley deserves someone better than me.”

“Crowley deserves to get what he wants,” Anathema parried, “and he wants you. End of.”

They stared at each other in the gathering gloom.

“Is that Newton?” the rumbling of an ancient Landrover was drifting through the darkness outside, bringing to an end their examination of the situation, and Anathema could have wept with frustration. 

“It is,” her jaw ached with the tension, “but I don’t have to go if you would like to talk some more?”

The engine cut out, the headlights switched off. “No,” Aziraphale pushed out a flat smile. “It’s fine. It’s a lot to think about – like you said. And I will think about it. I promise.” She hoped that he would. She really, really hoped that he would.

“Okay,” but maybe it was time to admit that she had lost this battle? There was always the rest of the war to concentrate on, though. “Okay, well, that’s good then. Thank you, for thinking about it. We all want you to be happy.” That was true, at the very least.

“I know.” So why did that seem to upset him so much?

She pushed to her feet and grabbed her cardigan from the back of the sofa, pushing him down with a hand on his shoulder as he rose to accompany her. “No, you stay there. You’re warm with the fire and everything. I can see myself out just fine. And I’ll message you, okay? When I get home.”

Aziraphale nodded, the ease in which he agreed evidence of his discombobulation. “Of course. I hope the drive back goes well. And you’ll give Iris a bedtime kiss from me? Tell her I will see her soon?”

A smile, more natural than anything Anathema had shared all day, broke across her face. “I will, and I hope that you will come over soon, both of you. We always love to have you.”

She leaned in at that and pressed a kiss to his cheek, shaking her head a little at the blessing he bestowed in return and slipping out into the hallway, opening the door and jerking in shock at the sight of the demon wearing nothing but a pair of black pyjama bottoms, hunched halfway up the stairs. “Crowley!” she just about possessed enough presence of mind to shut the door behind her and keep her voice down to a hiss.

He jerked where he was sat and a pair of black glasses instantly appeared on his face, one long finger pushing them up even more tightly against his nose. “Anathema,” he nodded to the front door, “that your ride?”

She stepped closer to the bottom on the steps and leaned in a little, “How long have you been sitting there?”

There was a pause then, just a little, before, “Thank you. I heard what you have suggested for him. It’s a good plan. I’ll help him with it in every way I can.”

Anathema’s heart twisted painfully. “Crowley, I –” she was interrupted then, by a knock on the door and, turning, she could see Newt’s silhouette, could hear Aziraphale getting up from the sofa.

“Anathema?” came the voice from the other room, “Is that Newton? Does he have Iris with him?”

Crowley shifted then, too, withdrawing up the stairs, melting into the darkness. “I’ll always do my best for him, always. And you’re right – I’d never leave him,” and then he was gone, fleeing upstairs to the safety of his room. But Anathema had seen, in that moment when she had opened the door and the light from the main living area had caught him red-handed in his eavesdropping, before he’d conjured a pair of glasses into reality, she had seen the absolute devastation carved into his features, a bleakness so complete, so utterly without hope, that it left her stomach rolling and her heart cold.

She turned to the door and her husband, a desperate, “Oh, Crowley…” spilling with her breath as she did.

~~**~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had only originally included Anathema in this as someone that Aziraphale could bounce off before Crowley was back on the scene - but goodness - am I glad they have her now! Where would they be otherwise???
> 
> Also - Aziraphale is an angel. Yes, he has a human body, but he is not human. If you are feeling anything like he is, do not try to struggle on alone (or even with the help of a witch and a demon), please go and talk to a professional. They can help.


	28. INTERLUDE: Twelve Tuesdays, Parts 8 and 9

Tuesday 25th March 2025

There was a full moon and a stiff breeze, clouds scudding across the sky and choppy waves breaking up a black sea with edges of moonlight. The beach was deserted, the tide out and the wet sand washed in silver.

A single figure emerged from the treeline at the back of the beach; a lonely silhouette in an empty night. It walked steadily down the beach towards the lapping waves, tall and dark, feet bare, naked, except for a pair of black shorts which hung loose on its hips. There was no hurry, but no wavering of pace either, and abruptly, between one step and another, a huge set of black, feathered wings sprung into existence on its back.

The casual observer would have found that strange enough – not that there was anyone about in the midst of a March night – but what happened next would surely have blown them away. The figure stopped, about ten metres from the bubbling edge of the waves, and crouched where it stood, one curled fist pressed into the wet sand. Then, without warning or preparation, it exploded upwards, the massive wings snapping the air with their powerful beats, arms held by its sides as it flew up, straight as an arrow, up and up, the illumination of the moon silver-plating each wing tip.

And then, just as suddenly, it stopped, twisting in on itself, head down, feet up, black wings angled tightly behind like a fighter jet, and it _dived_ , the wind audibly whistling through hair and feathers, the trajectory heading directly for the undulating sea. The figure fell faster, flew faster, a collision looked certain and then, at the last possible moment, it morphed again. Long arms flipped up into the point of a precision dive, the streaming wings vanished once more and then, in a move a cormorant would have been proud of, the figure disappeared into the black sea, leaving barely a ripple to prove that it had ever been there.

The night reclaimed its solitude and its silence.

The moon sauntered through the sky.

The wind dropped.

The sky lightened, black to charcoal, charcoal to iron, iron to battleship – an unremarkable sunrise smudging the sky.

The sea lightened too, losing the magical silver of the night, instead, heaving into an impenetrable gun-metal grey.

Finally, the figure re-emerged. Walking through the breakers as if it were nothing, ignoring the dragging waves and their attempts at recapture. It looked exactly the same as when it had first arrived on the beach, bare feet, bare limbs, no wings. But now its skin shone with seawater, its dark hair slicked back and dripping, a large seashell, the size of a grapefruit, in its hand.

It walked steadily back up the beach and into the trees behind. It followed the path through the wood, never seeming to mind how rough it got underfoot, never seeming to pick up any of the mud or wet leaves which choked the path.

It climbed on, winding upwards all the way, breaking through the trees at the top of the cliff and heading out across neatly ploughed fields, winding amongst awakening livestock, sliding through gaps in the hedgerow until, at last, it approached a single cottage with a wrap-around garden and a stile inviting it to climb over.

It did so and headed up the path towards the back door, giving the vegetation a cursory once-over as it did. Just as it reached the house, it paused, stooping to place its find at the juncture of wall and path before straightening up and heading into the dark cottage as the door swung open for it.

The garden retreated into solitude.

Far below, the waves continued to crash upon the shore.

The new shell on the path slowly lost the shine of seawater as it dried in the morning breeze, and it looked around it at its new home.

The other sea-treasures, the holey pebbles, the sea glass, the empty urchins, the driftwood, the fossils, all looked back at it, welcoming it, and above them all, a frozen demon slid carefully back into bed with a sleeping angel.

Silence returned.

~~**~~ 

Tuesday 29th April 2025

The wind was vicious, snapping at his coat tails and tugging at his limbs. Aziraphale stood firm against it all, his boots at the cliff-edge, his arms outstretched at either side like wings. He closed his eyes and tilted his face back, felt the washy warmth of the sun on his skin.

He smiled.

“Angel.”

He opened his eyes, the smile growing wider as he spied Crowley on the path behind him. Crowley _scowling_ at him.

“You get blown off, and I’m not messing my feathers up diving down there to catch you, you know.”

Aziraphale obediently took a step backwards but knew that he would. Absolutely.

“I won’t get blown anywhere, my dear, as well you know.” He threw a fond look Crowley’s way, took in the delightfully wind-blown hair, the rosy apples of his cheeks, his folded arms, the chilled way he held himself, despite the layers Aziraphale knew he was wearing.

How he loved him.

“Are we done getting our bollocks blown off now?” Crowley sniped. “I only agreed to come out because you promised there would be alcohol at the end of it all.”

Carefully, Aziraphale picked his way through the hillocky grass of the cliff-edge and back to the path. “Of course,” he reached out and wound his fingers around long, cold ones, unpeeling Crowley’s arms as he did so. “I’m more than ready. It’s just so bracing up here, isn’t it?”

“If ‘bracing’ means fucking freezing, then yes.”

Warming Crowley’s fingers in both his pocket and his palm, he turned them both and started the walk back towards the village.

He felt better. He felt so, so much better. In fact, he was only starting to understand how dreadfully low he had been when he realised that he didn’t feel like that anymore. It was as if he’d spent the last three months under a concrete duvet and now, finally, he’d managed to throw it back and clamber out of bed.

Or rather… Crowley had hauled it off him and set him free. Crowley, who had stood by his side and been yelled at and ignored for his troubles. Who’d had his carefully prepared meals and meticulously baked cakes thrown back in his face. Who’d been sobbed on and pummelled with equal ferocity. Who had had to cajole Aziraphale into the daily necessity of stimulating his own serotonin and inhibiting its re-uptake. Who held him through the panic and let him storm out of the cottage in the middle of the night when he needed the space. Crowley, who despite all his own pain and trauma and uncertainty had never once given up on Aziraphale. Had never allowed Aziraphale to give up on himself.

They were not out of the woods yet, but the trees were thinning and Aziraphale knew without a shadow of doubt that, without Crowley, he would have never seen the light of day again.

His stomach rumbled slightly as they left the worst of the wind behind them and continued to wind down towards the promised alcohol. On hearing the noise, Crowley turned and rolled his eyes at the angel, a sight that Aziraphale could clearly see, alone on the cliff as they were. “Hungry?”

“Oh, yes.” Crowley had made him a wonderful quiche Lorraine for lunch, with double cream and gouda and just the right amount of bacon. But walking was a tiring business and a cake would be very welcome once they returned to civilisation. Yes, maybe a slice of that salted caramel brownie would be just the thing. Or a cheese scone, and then Crowley might have some too. The little café they preferred, the one at the edge of the harbour, did a cheese and Worcestershire sauce scone that Crowley liked, although he didn’t usually eat it all. It went well with the red wine he knew the demon was craving though, so maybe that’s what they would get. Yes, Aziraphale decided to himself, he would order for the both of them; cheese scone, caramel brownie, Americano, pot of Earl Grey and a bottle of red with two glasses. Perfect.

“What are you smiling at?”

Crowley’s voice had lost most of its acerbic edge and, belatedly, Aziraphale realised that his standing at the edge of the cliff must have really unsettled the demon. He squeezed the fingers in his pocket in silent apology and turned, all ready to tell him of the plans he’d made for their victuals, but he was brought up short, stuttering to a halt, stopping Crowley with him, as he was assaulted with a deluge of feeling.

Crowley was just there, right next to him as always, standing, watching him, his beautiful eyes narrow slits against the blank brightness of the sky, his skin pale, his cheeks red, his hair windblown, his love warm and secure and everything that Aziraphale would ever need in life. It was nothing new, it was no huge epiphany, it was just, suddenly, _time_.

“You,” he answered instead. “I was smiling at how much I love you, and how I’d quite like to kiss you now, if I may.” His smile widened at the blink he got from Crowley for that. The blink and the cautious confusion.

“You kiss me all the time and you don’t usually ask,” he groused, but the red of his wind-burnt cheeks was already spreading.

“I do,” Aziraphale agreed lightly. “But then, I don’t usually kiss you here…” he’d cupped Crowley’s jaw with his free hand, and now he reached up and gently thumbed underneath his lower lip in gentle indication. “So, may I?”

The pause pulled out, the slits of Crowley’s pupils flared the tiniest of amounts and then, finally, there was a nod and a dry, “Yeah.”

Aziraphale’s smile widened again and he leaned in, holding Crowley’s wide-eyed stare with his own for as long as he could before, finally, dipping in to take a kiss six thousand years in the making. It was very chaste at first, nothing but a press of warm lips to chilled ones, but then a fire ignited in Aziraphale’s belly and the hand on Crowley’s jaw gripped a little more firmly, his head tilted just a little more to the right, and, with Crowley’s hand still wrapped up warm in his own, he deepened it all.

The difference was significant. The fire flared, Crowley’s fingers tightened on his, his mouth opened in response to Aziraphale’s, they leaned into each other, Crowley’s free hand slid up to press at the small of Aziraphale’s back, pushing them even closer, and Aziraphale felt tears spring up against the eyelids of his closed eyes at the absolute perfection of it all – they’d both done this before of course, but never with each other.

Their lips slid and slipped, Crowley’s warming by the second, Aziraphale’s tongue fluttered out, testing, and Crowley’s instantly joined it, sweeping across Aziraphale’s bottom lip, flicking inside the angel’s mouth, and, with a groan, Aziraphale swallowed it down. The hand on Crowley’s jaw slid around to the nape of his neck and held him firm, Crowley’s arm flattened against Aziraphale’s back and tugged their hips together and they kissed, and kissed, drinking each other in, lighting each other up, until, as a blast of icy spray rose up the cliff face misting them in salty water, they finally pulled apart, but not far, only enough to rest their foreheads together, both breathing hard, both reeling under the depth of everything.

“Have we done that before?” Crowley wheezed and Aziraphale chuckled.

“We have not. I love you,” he repeated, and Crowley squeezed him closer in reply.

They stood together on the lonely path until Aziraphale felt that his knees would be able to support him on their own once more and then he drew back, smiling at the wide-eyed shock he could read on Crowley’s face. “How about that drink now?” he offered gently, and Crowley nodded.

~~**~~

The café was empty when they got there and they could get their usual seat in the window, Crowley peeling off some of his artfully black layers and pulling himself back together as Aziraphale squeezed his shoulder and went to the counter to place their order.

Crowley had half of his scone with a scraping of butter whilst Aziraphale had the rest with cream cheese and caramelised red onion marmalade, and then the brownie, after persuading Crowley into a bite. They both drank their hot drinks, then started on the wine. They talked about nothing much whilst they ate and drank. Not the walk or Aziraphale teetering on the edge of the cliff. Not the kiss or Aziraphale’s declaration of love – and certainly not Crowley’s lack of reciprocation.

Aziraphale wasn’t worried about _that_ , not really. He knew Crowley, he knew his speed settings and, although they might be pretty full-on in most areas, dealing with his emotions always took just that little bit longer to process. Aziraphale knew he was loved, that wasn’t an issue, what maybe was though, was the _something else_ that Aziraphale could sense hanging around Crowley. The _something else_ that had been there a few weeks now.

They finished two bottles of wine and then, as the café staff started mopping floors and emptying the display fridges, they stepped out into the chill of the late afternoon, Aziraphale linking their arms together for warmth, pressing his nose into Crowley’s shoulder and out of the wind. They headed out of the little coastal village in silence, up the steep country lane, hugging the hedgerow as they went, before leaving the road and taking a footpath across the fields, heading for the cottage.

Aziraphale was happy, it might not be plain sailing for them now, but it was better, and Crowley’s _something_ would be sorted, he knew it would, how could anything stop them now? After everything they had fought?

He wasn’t expecting to find out what the _something_ was, not this evening for certain, not on the walk home, and not even when Crowley cleared his throat a little, throwing a glance Aziraphale’s way as he started speaking.

“So, I’ve been thinking…”

“Oh, a dangerous occupation I’ve been told,” Aziraphale smiled at him. “Especially after two bottles of that delightful wine.”

Crowley pushed out a thin smile which seemed to be blown off his face with a gust of wind. “Well, you know me, dangerous is my middle name.”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh in return.

“But yeah, thinking anyway, about what Anathema had suggested. You know, for you to try.”

Picking up on the serious tone of Crowley’s voice, Aziraphale looked up at his carefully blank expression. “Which part, precisely, dear boy?”

“You know,” Crowley was looking straight ahead. “The serotonin, the messing about with your own brain.”

“I’m not sure that’s exactly how she described it to me,” Aziraphale added, “But yes, what about it?”

“Well, I was wondering how you felt, you know, about doing it to me?”

Aziraphale stopped then, letting his arm slip from Crowley’s and Crowley took three or four steps further on before stopping and spinning around to see where the angel had got to. Aziraphale looked at him, his head tilted on one side as he considered. “Doing _what_ to you? Exactly?” he queried.

Crowley shrugged, “Messing about.”

Rather uncomfortably, Aziraphale thought he was beginning to get a feel for where this was going. “Serotonin?”

“No,” Crowley tugged at the neck of his jacket a little, made sure his eyes were on the darkening skies rather than his angel’s darkening expression. “I’ve been trying it out for myself, digging about a bit.” He tapped the side of his head, “You know, _memories_. They must be in here somewhere. My minds wasn’t wiped blank, was it?” he shrugged. “Got to be here still. Makes sense that we would be able to find them if we dig deep enough. Problem is – I can’t find them, not yet.”

Aziraphale stared at him, a sickly churning in his belly. “ _Dig deep enough_? Crowley, dearest, what have you been _doing_?”

Crowley’s jaw set and his chin raised a little. “Trying to fix this. Fix _me_. What do you _think_?”

“ _Fix you_?” Aziraphale could feel his heart thrumming against his ribs, “But, my darling, you’re not broken!”

It the gathering twilight, Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s eyes snapped to his, he knew that his demon eyesight would have no trouble in seeing his expression in the gloom, the difficulty seemed to be in interpreting it. “Don’t you want me to get my memories back?”

This time it was Aziraphale who shook his head. “Crowley. Forgive me for my confusion here. I understand that you would want things to go back to how they were, I understand that not remembering your own history is distressing and unsettling for you. But to mess about with your own head, your own _brain_ … your thoughts, your emotions, everything that makes you into _you_ … Well, it’s just so, so dangerous!”

“It’s what you’ve done.”

“Releasing an extra burst of serotonin a couple of times a day is not _this_ , Crowley.”

“It’s almost the same!” Crowley was getting angry and Aziraphale did not want the day of their first proper kiss to end like this. “Who dares, wins, angel! You want me back; you need to take a few risks.”

A cold trickle of realisation ran down Aziraphale’s spine. “If _I_ want you back? Crowley, this is _not_ about me! This is about _you_ and what _you_ want!”

“Well, maybe I want my memories back! Maybe I want to be the being you remember!”

For a dreadful moment, Aziraphale remembered his awful admission to Anathema on the afternoon when everything changed, and his stomach swooped in horror at what might have been. But no, he mentally shook himself, he trusted Anathema completely, knew her inside out – she would not have told Crowley what he’d said that day, she absolutely would not have. This was just Crowley and his doubts, of course it was, and it was perfectly natural for him to feel this way.

“Crowley,” he spoke slowly, held Crowley’s eyes as he spoke – he needed complete understanding for this. “You _are_ the being I remember. You _are,_ Crowley, and I love you. I don’t want you digging about in your brain to see what you can uncover _for me_ , do you understand? I don’t want to risk _anything_ when I am ecstatically happy with everything as it stands now. If this is something that _you_ want to do for yourself,” he took a deep breath, well, he still wouldn’t be happy about that, but that probably wasn’t his call to make, “then we can do some research, see what we can discover for this together. But no more random digging, please. Do you understand how strongly I feel about this?”

For a moment, anger washed across Crowley’s expression and Aziraphale braced himself for the explosion, his heart dropping into his boots: he so did not want them to do this. How many millennia had they already lost to distance and sniped comments between them? How many years were they alone, separated by the very angels Aziraphale had once called brethren? How many months had they already lived in fear and confusion and absolute misery? This was supposed to be their happy ending, Aziraphale was feeling better, Crowley was coping, they had _kissed_ – the last thing Aziraphale wanted from now, was for them to fight.

But then, it all just rinsed away, Crowley’s jaw set, and his eyes resolutely turned to the ever-darkening fields around them. Aziraphale wished away his glasses, wished that he himself had the nerve to take them away, but he understood what a betrayal that would be and settled for studying the line of his mouth, trying to use six thousand years of memories to try and parse what he was feeling. Frustration? No, not that, not _just_ that, anyway. Disappointment? Maybe. _Sorrow_? But why? Because he felt that Aziraphale wasn’t supporting him in his drive to get his memories back? But he had said that he would – was he not believed?

He closed the gap between them, reached out for Crowley’s hand but stuttered to a stop as he saw it twitched away from him. A slice of pain ran through his chest at that, but he ignored it and steeled himself – this was not about him. “Darling, please don’t misunderstand me here. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t do anything about getting your memories back, I’m just saying-”

“That it’s not a huge priority for you, right? That you’re happy to leave everything as it is right now. That you would rather I stayed like this.”

Bitterness – why was there bitterness? Why would Crowley feel like that about Aziraphale loving him just the way he was? “Well, yes… I suppose-”

The huff of confirmation, the sour twist to his mouth, both were perplexing.

“Look,” Aziraphale’s fingers itched to take Crowley’s again. “Why don’t we-”

“No. It’s fine,” Crowley dropped his gaze from the surrounding fields to the ground at his feet. “Forget I said anything. It just doesn’t matter anymore,” he shook his head once, like he was clearing something away, before making his way back up the path again, away from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale watched him go for a moment and then hurried to catch up, knowing that his words had caused injury, but really not understanding _how._ “It’s just-”

“I know. Whatever you say.” Crowley’s voice was flat, his jaw set, and the pain was back in Aziraphale’s chest. He dropped his own eyes to the muddy path beneath their feet, blinking against the sudden warmth in his eyes.

He felt, more than heard Crowley’s sigh in the gloom at his side, couldn’t hold back his own exhale of relief as a cold hand cautiously slipped into his. “I’m doing linguine for dinner,” the voice was carefully moderated. “How do you want it? Mediterranean vegetables or seafood?”

Aziraphale risked a quick sideways look, but the demon’s eyes were on the distant cottage, mercurial as ever. Relief at his reprieve swirled within him, though. “Erm, well,” he cleared his throat, squeezed the hand in his. “Seafood would be lovely. If you didn’t mind?”

“Seafood it is then,” Crowley lengthened his stride, tugging Aziraphale along with him. “Come on, angel, I’m fucking freezing again.”

~~**~~


	29. INTERLUDE: Twelve Tuesdays, Part 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: So, I think I'll get Tuesdays 10 and 11 posted on Sunday, maybe looking at about 5k words for them both.
> 
> Me now - stares in disbelief at the 8.6k words that Tuesday 10 has turned into on its own...
> 
> WARNING: Explicit Sexual Content

Tuesday 27th May 2025

Crowley glanced at the clock, 1.27am, and silently slipped into the chair in the corner of his bedroom ( _their_ bedroom), making sure that he hadn’t disturbed Aziraphale’s rest. The angel slept on though, which was a relief. He needed to sleep, it was helping with his recovery, and Crowley was really, _really_ pleased with how that was going. Anathema’s inspired idea had halted his downwards spiral, had allowed him to take control of his emotions once again, and had supported him whilst he had crawled out of the hole he’d been in and into the sunlight. Crowley was so proud of him, so absolutely proud of him.

Which, he supposed, made the rest of the situation even shittier than it ever should have been.

Really, Crowley should have expected it, he was a demon after all – what had he been doing even _thinking_ that there was going to be some happiness in loving an angel? What was _wrong_ with him? How delusional could one being be? And, of course, the absolute kicker of it all was that his competition in all of this was actually himself – a version of himself so vastly superior to this one that it had effectively died protecting the angel from harm. How could _this_ Crowley, lost, stateless, memoryless and friendless as he was, possibly hope to compete with that? Of _course_ the angel didn’t love him enough.

But Crowley knew his options. He could stay here, orbiting around Aziraphale in all of his angelic glory, basking in the little bits of love heading his way, enjoying the kissing that Aziraphale told him the other Crowley had never got (poor bastard) or, he could leave, set out into the world on his own and go back to doing whatever the Hell it was that he’d done when he was on his own before. Not that he could remember – but he must have done it, and he must have survived.

See, that was the thing that Crowley had come to understand. From everything he had heard and gleaned, Falling sounded like a fairly shitty deal. As did living in Hell. As did being a demon on Earth and plodding through the worst that man and supernatural beings could cook up between them. But – at the end of all of that – Crowley had survived. Come 2018 and the end of the World, he was still standing, with an angel at his side, and enough of a life that he was obviously willing to die in its defence. That had to count for something. If Crowley-of-the-past had been able to get through all of that with his sanity intact, then Crowley-of-the-present could do the same with this current shitstorm.

He wasn’t going to give up. He wasn’t going to roll over. He was _not_ going to lose himself to this. He was an immortal being – life was going to have to be worth living if he didn’t have much option about living it.

Aziraphale had made it very clear that he did not want Crowley to try and remake himself back into that model that Aziraphale had desperately loved – and that was fine. Crowley would respect that, he could live on the scraps thrown his way, the conversation, the touches, the _kisses_ … It was all fine. It was all good. All he needed were _coping strategies_ , a way to get all the irrational anger out of him without letting Aziraphale get taken out as collateral damage.

Keeping his distance worked well. The angel, it seemed, liked to kiss and, as much as Crowley enjoyed it too, he wished he’d been a bit smarter on that cliff path that day and told him no. Now that they’d started, it was too sweet a temptation to resist. So, he rationed himself, just a few kisses every few days and not for long enough that things might start to spin out of his control. On nights like these where Aziraphale seemed even keener than usual for them to spend hours necking on the sofa or in the huge bed, he’d invented TV programs he needed to watch, games he needed to finish, on-line arguments he needed to provoke. Then Aziraphale would go up without him, starting to become as reliant on sleep as Crowley himself was, and Crowley could come up later, once he was sure that the angel was asleep, and the danger had passed.

That didn’t quite cut it all the time, though. Sometimes, the _danger_ might have passed, but the electricity in Crowley’s bones had not. It fizzed inside him, sparking and hissing along his limbs, dancing over his skin, making it itch and crawl and feel as if it were peeling off, inch by inch. It zipped into the void where his heart should be, jabbing and piercing, shocking him with the sudden pain. It flayed over his flesh, slashing and tearing, leaving ragged pain behind. It roiled through him until it was all he was, a seething, bubbling mess of burning agony; it was at that point that he needed the ocean.

Since moving to the cottage, Crowley had developed a strong affinity with the sea. It was calming, almost hypnotising, to watch – even when he himself felt calm. When he didn’t, when the hurt and anger and frustration and helplessness was threatening to burn him alive, it was a lifesaver.

The cold of the water numbed everything, his itching skin, his burning limbs, his boiling organs, his seething emotions. The pressure of the depths bore down on him so completely, it was almost as good as being held. The silence was a balm to the constant stream of vicious self-flagellation that flowed through his mind. The darkness soothed his sooty, ruined soul. He liked it down there, it gave him peace, refreshed him enough to face another day.

It was his guilty secret.

And secret it had to be. He knew that the angel would not understand this compulsion he had to immerse himself in the inky depths in the dead of night. He would need to explain, and that would involve explaining how wretched and torn he was. Aziraphale did not need to know that. The least that would happen afterwards is that the angel would insist on coming with him on his excursions to the depths, utterly destroying the point of it all. The worst – he would have to stop and then the pressure inside him would build and build until he just exploded, destroying himself and the angel alongside him.

No, secret it had to be, and if Crowley rationed his visits to a couple of times a week, and brought back a treasure in silent and hidden apology, then that was his business. _Fake it ‘til you make it, baby_. It all seemed to be working out well.

Except… Crowley had taken his fix three times this week _already_ , and, this evening, all of Aziraphale’s little touches and smiles and kisses and hopeful hints had flayed him wide open again… what on Earth was he supposed to do about that??? Could he go again? He needed to go again… _Could_ he go again? Maybe if he made sure that the angel was sound asleep first… maybe if he helped it along a little… just the slightest of demonic suggestions of a good night’s sleep?

No! What the fuck was wrong with him? Was he seriously considering miracling the angel unconscious just so that he could sneak out for an illicit dip in the depths of the ocean? What would befall Aziraphale if Heaven came knocking whilst he was alone and unprotected? Or Hell for that matter? No – it was bad enough that Crowley would risk the angel by leaving him alone like this – how could he even consider making him defenceless at the same time?

He let out a sharp sigh and leaned forward in his seat, elbows on knees, staring at Aziraphale as he slept. It was no good though, no good at all. His skin was crawling, his blood was boiling, the empty space in his chest was a roiling mass of icy snakes. He was a mess of contradictions and he didn’t know how much longer he could hold it all together. His fingers trembled as he ran them through his already-messed-up hair. He needed this, he needed another fix and then… well, he’d have to reassess their routines here, he’d have to see if there was a way that he could keep enough of a distance to not let this thing top up so quickly inside him. He could not let Aziraphale notice all of his shit and _leave him._ He shuddered, his stomach flip-flopping around all the snakes, bile rising in his throat – he would not survive that.

Decision made, he stood up, bare toes gripping the plush pile of his carpet. He could do this, he could be there and back in an hour and settled enough to then, hopefully, last the rest of the week. Hopefully. No, bollocks to that, _definitely_. He could do whatever it was that needed doing to preserve this incredible life he’d stumbled into. He could be whatever it was that Aziraphale needed from him. Almost. He could do this shit – surely he’d been through worse?

Not knowing was kind of the point though.

He was down the stairs and out in the garden before he had the chance to change his mind. Manifesting his wings and taking off into the cloudy skies without full consideration as to who might be there to see him. He usually walked there and back, saved his wings for the dive down, but this night his blood was up and the clock was ticking and it was properly dark and they lived in the middle of fucking nowhere – he would be alright. He needed to be.

In seconds, he was over the sea, watching it writhing and undulating beneath him like a living thing. He picked his spot carefully, he knew the topography pretty well at this point, aimed for the part where the seabed dropped abruptly away, where the pull of the tides was weaker, the press of the water heavier.

His dive was as flawless as ever, his body slicing into the waves like a knife. He went straight down, relishing the silence that enfolded him as the air left his ears, pressed further until even his demonic eyes struggled to peer through the darkness. A wave of pain through his head reminded him that he hadn’t reinforced his human body for these depths, and he corrected that with a thought. The pressure increased, the cold intensified – everything swaddling him so securely he exhaled the last of his air in relief.

The seabed rose to meet him, silty and bare in this crevice between two huge behemoths of rock, and he let himself settled in its silky grip. He usually stripped to his underwear for this, the feeling of the powder-fine sand against his skin was soothing, but in his haste, it was something else he’d forgotten. No mind, with a thought he’d opened his shirt, settling his bare chest into the icy caress, pillowing his head on his arms and, under pressures that would crush a human in a moment, he let it all bleed out of him, let the weight of the water and the silence and the cold just squeeze all the jittery anxiety out of him, hold him tightly in its embrace.

Finally – he settled.

~~**~~

He was there far longer than he’d intended, but it was so easy to lose track of time down there and it had been utter bliss to drift on nothing like that. Wearily, he allowed his form to drift upwards, missing the crushing embrace of the pressure as he travelled at a speed which would make human divers balk. Almost reluctantly, he acknowledged the light and the sound as they rose to meet him, hanging on to the cold that soaked every molecule of his form in an effort to make the numbness last just that little bit longer. His face broke the surface and the first renewed shot of anxiety flashed through him as he noticed the line of paler grey that lay along the horizon. Fuck. He’d been too long – the angel was bound to be awake now, would be missing him, winding himself up into a state of his own – Crowley was a selfish bastard who really ought to know better by now.

For a moment, he considered bringing his wings out where he was, but he quickly discounted that as an option – he’d never get the salt and sand out of them on his own and wing grooming was the most intimate act there was for beings such as themselves. Well, second most intimate act, he supposed. Instead, he put his head down and struck out for the shore, using the waves to help him in, forcing his body to ignore the back-pull as each wave geared up for another go.

Eventually, his feet found purchase beneath him and he pushed into a walk, dropping his head to get his hair off his face, taking a hand, it was always so odd to do this when they were so numb so as not to have feeling at all, and wiping up his chin, cheeks, eyes, forehead, wiping away the water and pushing his wet hair back onto his head. He lifted his head then, forced a blink through the water in his eyes and looked up – stuttering to halt at the sight of the still form sat in the sand not five metres ahead of him.

_Fuck._

For the briefest of moments he considered turning tail and diving back to the depths once more, but Aziraphale had obviously seen him, was pushing himself up off the wet sand, an easy smile on his face and, heart sinking, Crowley knew that there was no way he was going to be able to duck this confrontation. The fingers of his left hand tightened on this morning’s treasure – a stone the size of a potato which sparkled like it was shot through with stardust – and he forced himself to keep walking.

“Morning,” there was no reproach in Aziraphale’s tone, no hint of panic and Crowley wondered if, somehow, that wasn’t actually worse. “I thought you might be down here,” another shot of anxiety flashed through Crowley’s carefully cultivated numbness. “Good swim?”

_Good swim_. At least Aziraphale clearly had no idea what it was that Crowley fled out here for.

He nodded, knew his voice would be too rough from the cold and the pressure and the seawater to sound right just yet and watched as Aziraphale’s eyes jumped to the stone in his hand.

“Oh, that’s so lovely! Is it to go with the others in the garden? You do find the most beautiful things down there.”

Yet another flash – how had he been so stupid as to think that the angel wouldn’t notice his growing collection? He was an idiot, a clueless idiot, and now he would lose all of this and how was he supposed to reset himself without it? How was he supposed to make himself everything Aziraphale needed if all he could think about was not losing hold of himself? Not letting the everything shake apart inside him? What if he lost control? What if he let it all go? What would happen then? What would he do? More importantly, what would _Aziraphale_ do? Would Crowley lose him? Would he leave? Would he tell Crowley to go? What it-

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice, sharp and short, snapped through his swirling monologue and Crowley looked up, found the angel studying him, easy smile gone, eyes crinkled in concern and, _shit_ , he’d done that. “Whatever is the matter?”

Where could he even start with that one?

He hadn’t noticed Aziraphale drawing closer to him, had been too busy with his internal panic that he’d not even _seen_ him reaching out, not until a warm, preternaturally warm to his chilled skin, hand wrapped around his forearm. “Oh, Crowley!” had he put that appalled tone in Aziraphale’s voice? “You are absolutely _freezing_!” He was, that was the point, _that was the whole fucking point_.

Everything around them suddenly swam and shifted and, in a moment, he found himself no warmer, thank fuck, but dry and standing in his bedroom once more. He swayed a little, disconcerted by the sudden change.

“Here,” Aziraphale was bustling forward, reaching around him to pull back the covers of the bed, “let’s get you sorted out and warmed up, shall we?”

The stone was taken from his numb fingers and placed on the bed side table, Crowley’s eyes following it helplessly. _It doesn’t go there,_ he thought, but everything was rapidly swimming out of his control, the tension in his corporation was ratcheting up again – how in Hell’s name was he supposed to survive this? And _still_ Aziraphale was talking.

“At least your clothes are dry now, but they still need to come off. “

His shirt was still open, he could still feel the ghostly caress of the soothing silt against his skin. He watched, frozen in the headlights, as Aziraphale reached out and, slowly, carefully, like he was trying so very hard not to spook him, took hold of its crisp edges.

“There now,” his voice was low, his breathing shallow, quick, and Crowley found his own quickening in response. “What a lovely shirt. So soft and finely spun, but,” a tight inhale, “not for sleeping in, no? We should take it off, right? Take it off, make you more comfortable.” It felt a little like a question, but not a question that Crowley had wit or ability to answer; he wondered if it were possible to discorporate from how fast his heart was beating.

And then his shirt was open and, instead of peeling it off his sharp shoulders, Aziraphale reached in, tentative fingers trailing down his ribs, pulling what could only be described as a whimper from the very depths of his empty soul.

"Angel—" his breath caught in his throat, and he was sure now that, yes, he _was_ discorporating right where he stood. He gasped helplessly, his skin lighting up under the gentle touch, his entire body buzzing, dizziness stealing up on him, stealing his balance.

“This is okay,” Crowley’s fuzzy mind wasn’t entirely sure if that was a question or a statement. “This is okay. You are okay.”

Hands then, flat and so, so _warm._ Soft, warm, angelic palms sliding over the prominent ridges of his ribs, slipping back to the front, ghosting up over the gentle swell of his chest, so agonisingly close to his nipples and Crowley could feel the tight pull of them as they stood to desperate attention. Another gasp was drawn from him at the thought of Aziraphale’s fingers so damn close to where he desperately wanted them to be.

Finally, Aziraphale caught the edges of Crowley’s shirt again, sliding it up and backwards, revealing the fine edges of his shoulders, the hard lines of his biceps. “Beautiful,” he breathed, his words ghosting over Crowley’s chest, leaving armies of gooseflesh in their wake. “Beautiful.”

Crowley swayed, his eyes fluttering shut against his cheeks. Beautiful? The angel thought he was beautiful? Him? Lost and imperfect as he was? A heat rose in his stomach, creeping closer to his wary heart. Beautiful? That’s how Aziraphale saw him?

_‘But… I love the other Crowley more.’_

“No.”

Without thought, he was across the room, his back thudding into the wall, his shirt hanging over his elbows baring his heaving chest to Aziraphale’s wide eyes.

“No,” he shook his head, desperately trying to clear his thoughts, he wouldn’t do this to himself, he couldn’t – not if he wanted to survive it. “No,” it was all he had.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale’s expression was flayed. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ve overstepped. I’ve misread. I thought-”

And his despair was so painful that Crowley couldn’t stand to listen for another moment. “No,” he said once more, cutting the rambling apology dead. “No. You can’t. _I_ can’t,” he tried to meet Aziraphale’s wide eyes and failed miserably. “I’m not him,” he whispered instead.

Silence.

A silence so heavy and still that, for a moment, Crowley could almost believe he was in the depths of the ocean once more. He took advantage of the reprieve, tried to haul himself back together, shrugged the shirt back onto his shoulders, gripped his numb fingers together to ease their trembling. It was okay, the angel had been right about that much, he would get through this, he could make it all normal again.

But then Aziraphale spoke.

“Crowley,” his voice was sharp, deadly, deadly serious and Crowley’s stomach twisted in dread. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Crowley shook his head, “Angel, you know…”

“I don’t know anything,” the room was starting to crackle with the same holy ire it had when Crowley had irritated Gabriel. “I don’t know anything, because you never _say_ anything. Not about you. Not about anything that might be important to you. Instead, I’m left guessing and wondering, and that – well, I refuse to guess about _that_ Crowley. This – _you_ – well, it’s too important to risk getting it all wrong.”

The sickening thud of his heart against his ribs was distracting Crowley, but not so much that he couldn’t understand Aziraphale’s words. Why would he have to guess about this? This wasn’t anything to do with what Crowley thought or was important to _him_ , it was Aziraphale, it was all Aziraphale. How could he pretend otherwise?

“Don’t play games with me, angel,” his voice was scraped raw and he winced at how it betrayed him. “I am doing my fucking best to play within your rules, within your comfort zone. You can’t make it harder for me, and then plead ignorance to it all.”

He felt the angel take a step closer to him. “Who, Crowley?” the words were as sharp as any celestial blade. “Who are you _not_?”

_Really?_

A breath left his chest, a little desperate and a little humourless; Aziraphale was really going to make them do this?

“Him,” the word was pushed out through an iron jaw. “The other Crowley. I’m not _him_.”

The silence was back. Crowley felt Aziraphale take another step towards him and flattened himself further into the wall; he wasn’t at all sure that he would be strong enough to walk away should the angel touch him again.

“There _is_ no other Crowley.”

He laughed then, bitter and short, his anger helping him to meet those guileless, wide eyes. “Please don’t patronise me,” his tone was short. “You said it yourself – you might love me, but not as much as him – never as much as him. Do you have any idea how hard it is to do this when I know you are constantly wishing I was someone else?”

He was trapped in his own bedroom. Trapped by Aziraphale’s presence and his stare and his prickling anger and Crowley’s own damn cowardice. Why had he ever come here? Why had he ever thought that this could work between them in any shape or form at all? Why hadn’t he run to the ends of the Earth where he could have licked his wounds in private until he found who he might be without Aziraphale and his Crowley constantly towering over him?

“You heard… Oh, no, my dear, you were never supposed to hear that!” and wasn’t that the understatement of the millennia? The angel’s voice was laced in something that could very well be regret as he shook his head and wrung his hands. “My dear… I was _unwell_ …”

Crowley shrugged, enough feeling returned to his hands to feel the rough wall against his palms. “You can’t help how you feel, angel.” 

“I was unwell!” and that was definitely anger. “You saw how bad I was! You of all people, Crowley! You know how dark and hopeless everything looked then! You saw, and you went to Anathema for help and you _saved_ me, but you _know_ I wasn’t thinking at all straight at the time!”

And what a handy little excuse that would be – if Crowley would let it. “You were depressed, angel, you weren’t brain damaged! What you felt then is what you feel now. You’re just better placed to hide it.”

“No!”

Crowley wondered if he could remember seeing Aziraphale so angry before.

“I _feel_ nothing like I felt then! I couldn’t see a future for us then, I couldn’t see a future for anything! I was buried in _nothing_ , so deep it was impossible to see a way out through it all. I didn’t think I loved you – I didn’t think I was capable or deserving of anything good or kind or light or right! It was _nothing_ to do with you and everything to do with me and I was wrong! I am so sorry that you had to hear that – I’m so sorry that you have had to live with that for all these months, and, quite frankly, it all makes a lot more sense now, but you are _wrong_. I was _wrong_. I’m sorry I have hurt you so badly, but Crowley, you have to believe me now; I love you. I want you. I need you. _You_. Do you understand that? You. Not some ridiculously imagined previous version of you, just you, all of you. From before, from now, from the future. I love you. Can you stop punishing yourself long enough to see that? _Can you_?”

Crowley paled. Punishing himself? Was that what he was doing? But no… it couldn’t be, not at all. He didn’t want to feel like this, he didn’t want to live like this. The ocean wasn’t punishment, it was _coping_ , and that’s what he was doing, just getting through this the very best way that he could. But – what if the angel was right and he didn’t have to just _cope_? What if everything he wanted was just out there? Just waiting for him? 

He shook his head. “That’s not fair,” his tongue was thick, the words stubborn. “I don’t _want_ it to be like this…” and Aziraphale seized his chance.

“Then please, darling, _please_ don’t let it. Everything we have done, every hurt we have lived through, remembered or not… and now we have the chance to start making things better!” He took a step in and Crowley forced himself not to flinch away, he watched as Aziraphale eyed him, his expression morphing into something careful and cunning and Crowley knew he was in trouble. “Don’t you think that that’s right? Don’t you think that I deserve some happiness now?”

That wasn’t fair, he must have known what Crowley would answer to that, “Of course you do.”

“And you?”

Crowley could only shrug.

“And what if what I want, what I need for my happiness _is_ you? What then? Are you going to deny that? Deny me?”

Crowley swallowed and looked away.

Aziraphale stepped in again. “What do you want?” he asked quietly. “Is it me? Is it my love? All of my love? Because if it is, then it’s all here. All of it. For you Crowley, just for you. Is that what you want?”

_Always. Forever._ But – couldn’t the angel _see?_ “I can’t be his replacement you know,” he had to be honest. “I can’t live like that. It would destroy me.”

“Why would I need a replacement when I have the real thing?”

Crowley looked at him, desperate for him to understand. “But I’ve changed. I must have.”

“So have I. I’ve changed and I’ve mourned, and I’ve grown, and I’ve realised that if you don’t grab what you want, what you _love_ , then you might just turn around one day and find that it’s gone. I can’t lose you again, Crowley. I _won’t._ ”

They stared at each other, Crowley’s heart thumping in his chest.

“But I won’t push you into what you _don’t_ want, either. This is down to you. This is your choice, dear boy. All yours. I love you. I love you more than I ever thought it possible to love a single being. I love you and I want you – I want an _us_. What about you? What is it that _you_ want?” 

And that was it – that was the very last moment in which Crowley could hold out. He wasn’t strong enough to do this for a single moment longer and quite honestly – he didn’t want to. Living like this, creeping around on all this broken glass, well, that had to be worse than throwing himself off the ledge and into the unknown. Either Aziraphale would catch him, or he would dash himself to pieces on the rocks below, but either way, it couldn’t possibly hurt any more than _this_. He closed the gap between them in the blink of an eye, taking Aziraphale’s stunned face in his hands and kissing him, kissing him with every single torn and tattered part of him.

For the briefest of moments, Aziraphale was a stunned statue beneath his attentions, but then he too broke, his own hands scrabbling to find Crowley’s jaw, angling it, holding it, and moaning obscenely into Crowley’s mouth once Crowley took the hint and deepened the kiss. Electricity shot through him and he grasped Aziraphale's curls, more to still the trembling of his own fingers than anything else, and tasted him, tasted all of him, and he was lost, unleashed, helpless in the face of all this feeling.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck…_ it was the only thought in his head. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He was absolutely going to die an Aziraphale, it seemed, was faring no better. The hands on Crowley’s jaw had slid into his hair, gripping it, smoothing it. They’d then fluttered down his neck, back under his shirt, ghosted over his ribs and were now on his spine, scrabbling at the tight skin, desperate for purchase, pulling them closer together, almost swallowing him whole. His desperate tugging yanked Crowley’s hips to his and that flash of contact along his swelling cock had Crowley moaning into the kiss, desperately grinding himself forward again.

He honestly was going to discorporate if he didn’t get some friction there soon, discorporate where he stood, shaking and trembling and frantically licking through an angel’s mouth. He walked them both backwards, needing something, needing a wall and then, with a solid thump, they were there, and he was bucking his hips frantically, choking on the desperate sobs of relief as Aziraphale matched him desperate thrust for desperate thrust. Fucking hell – finally, finally, _finally_ – was he going to actually get this?

He was going to come, _fuck, fuck, fuck_ , they both were, and he couldn't, they couldn’t – not yet. With gargantuan effort, he stilled his hips but Aziraphale just whimpered and chased him backwards. He needed to hold the angel still, he needed to strip their clothes, he needed to touch that Heaven-spun hair, he needed to hold that beautiful cupid’s bow mouth... he didn't have enough hands, he didn’t have enough time, he wanted it all and he wanted it _now_.

He reached up with shaking and uncoordinated fingers to tug, messily, ineffectively, at Aziraphale’s bow tie, but then the angel’s fingers were on his, pulling them away, drawing them to the buttons on his trousers instead and Crowley’s mind just whited out at the implication.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, I can’t..._

He flattened them together, pressing the angel into the bedroom wall again, grinding their erections together in a manner that had Aziraphale keening, high, into his ear. His own hands had no clue what they should be doing. They were touching his hair, stroking his cheek, squeezing his arse, _fuck_ , tugging at his hip, thumbing the corner of his mouth, scrabbling to get his shirt free of his waistband, tracing his spine, squeezing his neck… It was too much, not enough, he was still so cold but burning up and, _Jesus wept_ , he was still so close to coming. 

He needed to stop this, slow it all down. He needed to check what the fuck they were doing, sort out some ground rules, some preferences and no-gos. He needed to treat his angel with the respect he deserved, but he just could not stop kissing him. He forced his head away from those red and shining lips, but then there was a line of collar bone taunting him from the open neck of Aziraphale’s shirt and where had the bow-tie gone? When had those buttons been opened? How had Crowley missed the baring of this precious strip of skin? He fell on it then, kissing and licking and nipping as Aziraphale crushed him even closer, breathing hard into his hair, taking handful’s of Crowley’s neat arse and hauling their erections together again. Crowley could only whine through his kisses.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered over him. “Yes, darling, yes.”

Crowley forced his mouth away, running the top of his nose against wet and bitten clavicles, as he held himself back. “Yes, what?” he prompted, his voice shaking, “What do you want?” 

“You,” it was barely more than a breathy moan and Crowley almost bit through his own lip at the violent jerk it provoked in his swollen cock. “I want _you_.” How Crowley kept his feet, he would never know.

They were still dressed, between them were more layers of clothing than Crowley could even begin to consider. His desperate, sex-soaked mind directed him to _get them off, let them touch,_ but his coordination and higher order thinking skills had cruelly abandoned him. He reached up, fumbling with a random button on the angel’s shirt, then losing himself in ineffectually tugging at his waistcoat instead. A flash of skin or swollen lips would then snatch his attention away once more and he would lose himself to the kissing, before remembering the trousers Aziraphale had led him to minutes ago and fumbling around helplessly again. 

Abruptly, there was a hand in his hair, sharply tugging his head backwards until his wide eyes were staring at the ceiling. The pain of it shot straight to his cock and he gasped out loud, fingers tightening in the angel’s shirt, swallowing huge lungfuls of air at the, “Steady…” that was breathed into his ear.

The hand relinquished its grip and he started again, waistcoat first, forcing himself to look at nothing but his own fingers as they fumbled with every ancient button, forcing himself to ignore the shirt that was ghosted off his own shoulders, the kisses that were pressed to his neck. Now the angel’s shirt, _button, button, button, button…_ How were there so many fucking buttons? He dimly registered angelic fingers unfastening his belt, sliding it out of its loops, dropping it to _thud_ on the floor as he finally unwrapped Aziraphale’s torso from its torturous layers.

He made the mistake of looking again then, hungrily taking in all that perfect, pale skin and his hips jerked desperately forward, rebelling against his control and he sucked in a breath at the flash of friction which shot up his cock. He was choking on his own attempts to breathe, not able to kiss anywhere, not able to choose, and then not able to stop as he feasted on shoulders and breastbones, softly padded ribs and, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , pert and dusky nipples. Aziraphale was moaning, pulling him closer, moving him on, tugging him back, positioning him anew; it was too much and nowhere near enough all at once.

_Steady_ , Aziraphale had told him and, _fucking hell_ , this was a far from steady as they could possibly be. He couldn't do enough, get close enough, touch enough, kiss enough, hold enough, stroke enough, and the angel’s moans were becoming louder, more regular, rising like the heat in Crowley’s pants.

_Fuck!_

He pushed away, forcing space between every part of them, stepping back, his thin chest heaving, his trousers obscenely hugging the line of his erection, his palm holding the angel flat against the wall even as he whined in disappointment, his red, shining lips open as they sucked in desperate breath of their own.

“Steady,” he repeated out loud, his own voice shaking as he stared at the half naked angel in front of him, fingers now curled around Crowley’s wrist as if he were holding on for his very life.

Aziraphale blinked at him, his eyes hooded, his own erection tenting his trousers, the pale skin of his chest flushed in red and marked with bites. “Bed,” he re-joined, and Crowley felt his knees buckle, his eyes roll back in his head, an undemonly whine escape his lips.

He was already moving though, too weak to check, too desperate to seek confirmation, to terrified to verify. Instead, he just crowded in close, burying his face in the crook of a neck even as Aziraphale hauled him closer, a hand in his hair, a hand on his arse. 

They fell onto the mattress, an ungainly tumble of arms and legs and desperately seeking mouths. Crowley ended up on top and instantly took the opportunity to relocate a nipple with his mouth, sucking and biting and flicking and licking as Aziraphale squirmed and yelled beneath him, his hands winding up into Crowley’s hair and holding him fast.

Pretty soon it was too much and not enough all over again. The restriction of his fly against his swollen cock was maddening in its pressure-not-pressure and, as much as Crowley wanted to spend the rest of his life in running his tongue over every single millimetre of Aziraphale’s skin, he was coming to the conclusion that, if he didn’t get some friction on his groin pretty soon, he was probably going to explode. Determinedly, he crawled down, eyes closed, his tongue feeling the way, the hands in his hair gloriously rough and tight and then, he sucked in a breath as warm skin was replaced by ancient cotton and, yet again, his thoughts whited out as the reality of what he was doing slammed into him. 

He stopped, poised above the angel on hands and knees, his eyes closed, his breath blowing desperately over the buttons of Aziraphale’s trousers, his heart thundering in fear and wonder and disbelief and desperate, desperate love. _Shitting fuck_ – he _was_ going to die, and before they even got to the main act.

He dropped his forehead to Aziraphale’s waistband and breathed raggedly, beating back all the pain and fear and loneliness that had led to this moment, wondering what was on the other side – how he would ever be able to get through it if it wasn’t his future.

“Crowley…”

His fingers tightened on Aziraphale’s hips. His breath quickened.

“Crowley,” the fingers in his hair loosened, stroked, petted, soothed and Crowley sucked in a sob. “I love you.”

And that was it, wasn’t it? That was all that mattered. They might have been battered, they might have been wounded, but they loved each other. That was the only thing this was.

Crowley breathed through it all, ignored the parched desire to pull Aziraphale against him and rut until they both came, ignored the old, aching pain in his damaged, demonic heart, ignored the voice that told him that this was not for him, would never be for him, and lifted his head, forced himself to look into Aziraphale’s eyes, forced himself to blink through the desperate tears and smile. “I love you too.” Who would ever have thought he would have been brave enough?

Aziraphale smiled at him, watery and imperfect, and then it all faded away again, the smile, the uncertainty – Crowley felt the molten desire wash over them both – and they moved together, lurching forward to meet in a desperate, uncoordinated kiss that had Crowley whining again, his clumsy fingers groping for buttons which vanished even as they were found, vanished along with every stitch of clothing they had both been trapped in and Crowley had no idea whose doing that had been. They both quaked at the sudden wash of air over their bodies and Crowley shifted slightly, looking to steady himself, but his knee caught the inside of Aziraphale’s thigh and he collapsed in an ungainly heap instead, chest to chest, groin to groin, and they both moaned at the sudden, delicious friction. 

“ _Angel_ ,” it was reverent and poignant, and all Crowley had as he ground down into the angel, his hips twisting and writhing and coiling and wringing. Dropping his head, he found a salty patch of neck and set to work on it, licking and kissing and sucking, even as Aziraphale cried out beneath him, simultaneously bucking up and clamping a hand onto Crowley’s buttock pinning them together. 

“Aziraphale…” he was losing himself, losing it all again, too caught up in all the places they were touching, all the ways he was feeling, to consider what other treats lay ahead.

“Crowley,” he’d never heard the angel sound so wrecked, so reverential, so erotic and he shuddered, hissing at the burst of pre-come that left him, making the slide of their cocks all the more filthy and wondrous. “Mine.”

He whimpered at that, actually whimpered into the wet patch of skin which was his world. “Angel,” it was all he had in reply, “Angel, angel, _angel…_ ”

They writhed together, the hand in his hair and the hand on his arse grounding him, keeping him from flying to the stars on the ecstasy of it all. They were going to come like this, there was nothing Crowley could do about it now. His hips were working to their own schedule, his cock was demanding completing, his balls were tightening, his breath hitching and then, “Inside me, darling, inside me,” and how the fuck he didn't explode right there and then he would never know.

But, _shit_ , inside him? Inside the angel? _Fuck, fuck, fuck…_ he had never even allowed the very _edge_ of his thoughts to go there. To be _that_ – to be joined so intimately, to be inside one so utterly perfect… again, how had he not come or simply died at the thought?

“You’re sure? You’re sure?” but he was already moving, unable to go too far away, unable to lose the line of contact they had from head to toe.

Aziraphale only moaned and guided Crowley’s hand to his own velvet cock.

_Jesus fuck_ , he was dying, he was dreaming, he was shaking apart with it all but Aziraphale wanted him. _Aziraphale wanted him_. How had his life become _this_?

He slithered onto the bed at the angel’s side, stroking him slowly, steadily, as he urged him up onto a hip, slid in behind him, pulled them together, arms, chest, hip, legs, even their feet were tangled together on the bed.

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale seemed drunk on the pleasure Crowley was wringing from his cock and a knife of doubt flashed into his chest.

“You’re sure,” he had to check, he had to – there was no way he would survive fucking this up.

The angel’s eyes opened then, and he looked backwards, craning his neck to find Crowley again, smiling even though his eyes fluttered in bliss, even though his hips twitched in desperate desire for completion. “My darling,” his voice shot liquid pleasure down Crowley’s spine and straight into his cock. “Never surer,” and he pushed back, making it perfectly clear what he wanted, dragging a moan from Crowley’s chest as he dropped his head and forced his climax back yet again.

_Jesus, fucking Christ…_ they were really going to do this.

He shifted his hips back a bit, sucking in a desperate breath at the moan of disappointment the angel made as his cock was released, and thought for the briefest of moments. He wanted to do this the human way, the way that Gabriel had never done for him, but… his traitorous mind played a quick montage of what that would be like, the way that Aziraphale would moan and writhe, the way his body would grip Crowley’s finger, tugging him in, welcoming him in… His cock jerked against Aziraphale’s thigh, overwrought and too close to the edge and Crowley had enough sense left amongst the swirling testosterone to know that he would never even get anywhere near coming inside his angel if he chose that route. It was a shame, but there would be more chances. Please someone, let this be good enough for the angel that he would get more chances.

He closed his eyes, dropped his forehead to Aziraphale’s shoulder and pulled together the very best miracle he could.

“Ohhhhhh.”

_Fucking shit…_ even that breathy sound of bliss from the angel almost finished him off.

“Alright? Ready?” he was shaking, his voice, his arm, his legs, his fingers… _Smooth,_ he berated himself furiously, _fucking smooth, Crowley…_

“Please,” was the breathy reply and Crowley could not wait a moment longer. He swung his hips back in, lifting a soft and heavy buttock with one hand, tucking his chin onto his chest so that he could see, shuffling closer, lining himself up, shaking and shaking as he edged closer, folding his arm around Aziraphale’s midriff and then, finally, finally, _fucking finally_ , pushing himself home.

They cried out together, Crowley pressing his face into Aziraphale’s neck, Aziraphale clutching at his arm with a grip hard enough to tear flesh. It was… it was… it was indescribable. Crowley had never been this hard in any of his interactions with Gabriel, never, and somehow, he doubted that he’d been as hard as this at any point in his entire six-thousand-year history. It was perfect, it was more than perfect, it was divine.

Aziraphale let out a guttural moan and pulled Crowley closer, pushing him another couple of centimetres inside and the pressure of it all, the perfect squeeze, had Crowley choking on a sob, had Aziraphale throwing back his head, curling an arm around Crowley’s neck and tugging him down for a wet and frantic kiss. “More,” he breathed, right into Crowley’s mouth and Crowley obliged, pushing in further, deeper, sliding through all that smooth and perfect heat. It was the first time since he’d come back to himself, all alone in a muddy field, that he felt _right_.

“Angel,” he whispered, “angel, angel, angel…” He wanted to slam right in, he wanted to pin Aziraphale down and pound into him until he found his release, he wanted to do this forever, he wanted to stay like this for all time, he wanted to howl to morning skies as he came, but more than that, he wanted to take Aziraphale apart and make him come so hard he would feel like he was flying – and he would know.

He held his breath, held his angel, closed his eyes and pushed, pushed, pushed until he was finally nestled as deep as he could go. He took a moment then, nuzzled into the shell of an ear he found in front of him and felt about until his questing fingers found Aziraphale’s cock once more. “Angel,” he whispered again, no room in his head for anything more eloquent than that.

They held still for a moment, Crowley kissing anywhere he could reach, until Aziraphale’s hand slid back into his hair, his own hips nudging back a little, announcing he was ready. Crowley took a breath in, held it for a moment, and then, as he breathed out, he pulled his hips backwards, feeling the sweet drag of skin on skin, shuddering at the bliss of it all. He pulled so far out that only the flared tip of his cock was left hanging onto the angel’s body.

Then he pushed in, and they cried out together, Crowley’s hand stuttering in his stroking Aziraphale, Aziraphale’s fingers tightening in Crowley’s hair again.

“Oh…”

Crowley did it again.

“My darling…”

And again.

“Oh!”

And then he was lost. This was like nothing he had ever experienced before. They were tangled together from tip to toe, Crowley’s face buried in Aziraphale’s neck, his hand stroking the angel’s cock in time with every push in, the angel’s fingers in his hair pulling and tugging in counterpoint to every snap of Crowley’s hips. He couldn’t stop, not for anything, not when his entire world had narrowed down to the swing of his hips, the stroke of his hand, the flick of his wrist. It was perfect for him, but not for Aziraphale, not yet, despite his enthusiastic commentary to every push in, Crowley wanted it to be better, needed it to be better, he adjusted his angle just a little and-

“Oh, God!”

Crowley flushed with pride and did it again.

“Oh yes!”

He was moving on autopilot now, his body setting a rhythm of its own as he chased their release, his teeth barred as he desperately held it back for his angel. His eyes were closed, his forehead slipping in the sweat of Aziraphale’s neck, one arm clamped tightly around a flushed chest, the other desperately stroking a weeping cock.

_Fuck._

He bit his lip and kept his rhythm.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._ It was so good, it was too good.

“Crowley…” it was clear that Aziraphale was getting close, the hand in Crowley’s hair was tightening, tugging, his other had flapped back and was kneading Crowley’s arse with every pull in.

“Angel…” _Jesus, fuck_ , he was burning up, he was expiring, he was shattering into a million pieces and he didn’t even care. “Angel…” it was all he had in his head, all there was. Angel. His angel. His. At last.

“Crowley, yes, yes, darling, my darling!” Every part of Aziraphale locked up, pulling a choked whimper from Crowley as he dug in and snapped his hips even harder, even faster, sweat running into his eyes as he kept his angle just perfect.

“Crowley!” the hand in his hair tightened into pain and almost pushed him over the edge. In response, Crowley flicked his wrist over the head of Aziraphale’s cock and the angel howled, throwing his head back, Crowley just managing to jerk out of the way to avoid a smashed nose. The cock in his hand surged up, and came, jerking and twitching as it spilt over Crowley’s fist and finally, finally, finally, Crowley let go.

He came immediately, wrung out by Aziraphale’s continued spasming, a cry, low and ragged, pulled from him as his hips snapped on their own accord, shooting his very essence into his angel, over and over and over again as he clung and clung, a sob bubbling up from deep in his chest, he convulsed violently, involuntary tremors wracking his body, “Angel… angel… angel… _angel…_ ” It was a promise, a plea, a desperate hope.

“ _Crowley…_ ” as Crowley shook and shuddered, Aziraphale snatched his hands up, his own voice hoarse and choked, and kissed them, kissed every finger, and each sweaty palm. “My darling, my boy, _my love._ ”

Crowley stuttered to a stop, suddenly over-sensitive, his eyes prickling with tears, his very essence shivering and shaking. He pulled out, scrambling desperately over Aziraphale’s hip, flopping down on his other side, his hand shivering as he reached out but Aziraphale was ready for him, tugging him close, pressing his ear against the angel’s own flushed and heaving chest.

“My boy,” he whispered again. “My dearest love. _My darling_. It’s alright. It’s all going to be just fine. It’s alright. You’re alright. _You are_.”

Crowley folded into Aziraphale’s chest, let himself be held – and believed him.

Believed _in_ him.

Believed in them both.

~~**~~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh - I hate writing sex scenes, I hope this worked for you! :)
> 
> Two Tuesdays, one chapter and an epilogue to go (I think). This is looking like being the longest thing I have ever written!
> 
> See you Wednesday!
> 
> Indigo x


	30. INTERLUDE: Twelve Tuesdays, Parts 11 & 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge apologies for missing a Wednesday post. Again, the week ran off with me and work has been manic. Still hoping for a Sunday post as well, though. So close to the end now! 
> 
> WARNING: a scene containing images after violence had taken place, clear, but not dreadfully graphic (in my opinion, anyway!)

Tuesday 24th June 2025

Aziraphale was sitting on the beach, in a miraculously empty cove to be precise, in a rather comfortable recliner, reading a book. Well, perhaps not _really_ reading a book. Okay, so in reality he hadn’t even attempted to look at a single word in his book for the past half an hour, but really, who could possibly blame him when Crowley was being just so… _there_.

They’d decided to head down to the beach late morning, and Aziraphale had packed them up a delicious cool box full of nibbles (and wine), Crowley had appropriated a couple of space-age-looking deckchairs from _somewhere_ and they had headed down to their nearest beach – the one Crowley always chose for his late night dips.

There was no road that led to the beach here, and the path down through the woods was steep and dangerous when it rained and so it was never the busiest of places, but its complete lack of other sunseekers this day was a little suspicious to say the least. Aziraphale smiled, he wondered when _anyone_ would ever think to come here again after both he and Crowley had obviously miracled it out of their minds.

So, here they were, alone on a beach in the early summer sunshine, peace and solitude and each other, what else was Aziraphale supposed to do if not sit and watch Crowley?

The demon in question had lounged at Aziraphale’s side for the first hour. Bare feet, bare legs, black denim shorts, a loose linen shirt in the smokiest of charcoal, Aziraphale thought he looked utterly delicious, if a little bored. The swinging leg was a tip off, and then the tapping fingers, and then, just as Aziraphale was going to ask him what he wanted to do on the beach if _not_ lounge in the sun, he sprang to his feet and addressed the distant horizon. “You mind if I go for a walk along the sea edge?”

Aziraphale had blinked at him, wondering why he felt the need to ask. “No, of course not. Do you want me to come with you?”

Crowley turned his head Aziraphale’s way. “Do you _want_ to?”

“Ah, not really…”

That got him a warm little chuckle. “Then, no. You stay here and enjoy your book. I won’t go far. I’ll stay in sight.”

So, that was that then, that stubbornly shared sense of panic that, should either of them move from the sight of the other, they would be lost forever. Aziraphale completely understood why this fear haunted them – he just wished it would bugger off and leave them alone. “Of course, dearest,” he made sure his smile was warm and natural. “That sounds fine. And then, when you’re done, we’ll eat.”

Crowley nodded at that and took a step away before pausing, turning back in and bending to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s upturned and expectant lips, then whirling away and stalking across the sand towards the sea, his shirt flapping slightly in the breeze. Oh – how Aziraphale loved him.

_Four weeks_ , he though to himself. Four weeks since the night when everything had finally become too much to sit quietly inside them. Four weeks since it exploded out and almost swept them away in its violent passion. What a memory that was. Crowley had slept in Aziraphale’s arms afterwards, whilst Aziraphale himself had dozed, or catnapped, or lain awake and stared at him and _loved_ him and thanked anyone who cared for letting them have this bit of happiness in their lives.

It had been late the following afternoon when he had finally awoken, his hair mussed, his eyes sleepy, his cheek crinkled from lying on Aziraphale’s chest, and Aziraphale was stunned that he just seemed to love him even more. He’d taken a minute to orientate himself, Aziraphale could almost see him skipping through memories in his head. There was a split second when Aziraphale’s heart thumped in fear that this was going to be terribly awkward and dreadfully short-lived, but then Crowley had flicked a smile at him and leaned in to press in a kiss, before adding, in a deliciously sleep-roughened voice, “Mornin’ angel,” and said angel had known that everything was going to be just fine.

And just fine it was. In fact, just fine was a poor descriptor for what they’d actually had these past few weeks. The sex had been, well, spectacular, if he was going to be totally honest with himself, but that wasn’t even the best bit. The closeness, the _intimacy_ they shared was like everything they’d ever had before, multiplied a hundred-fold. Despite everything, Aziraphale still knew Crowley inside out and, despite everything, Crowley was starting to re-learn Aziraphale too.

They spent the majority of their first three days in bed, touching and talking and eating and loving – they had so needed that time. After that, they slid straight back into their routine of not doing an awful lot, but doing it all together, more together than they had ever been and, having Crowley at his side like that, in his life like that, well, it was like an anvil had been removed from around Aziraphale’s neck, he was so light with happiness, he felt he could honestly float away.

As much as it was perfect, however, it was still very much _them_. Aziraphale felt that, at times, his steadiness, his slow pace in life, irritated Crowley a little, although the irritation often seemed skin-deep at worst, fond at best. Crowley too remained maddeningly reluctant to discuss anything of any deep emotional significance. He would agree with whatever Aziraphale said, he would scowl and say it didn’t matter, he would change the subject or slide his hand up Aziraphale’s thigh – anything other than actually bare a tiny bit of his inner self to Aziraphale’s inspection. At times, the angel thought of ‘Tom’ and the easy way he’d shared his feelings with an almost-stranger. How strange, given that ‘Tom’ and Crowley were exactly the same person – what a difference the knowledge of his demonic- self had wrought. Even stranger, that Crowley couldn’t shove this behaviour trait away, when he had always excelled at _not_ being whatever it was that demon should be. There were obviously limits to this talent, Aziraphale admitted to himself.

So, yes, perfect and _them_. Perfectly them. Everything that Aziraphale had ever wanted, and given that, was he really going to lie here and read his book when, instead, he could be watching his most ardent love as he stalked long the sea-line, his head bowed, his snake’s eyes scanning the wet sand intently? Aziraphale watched him bending from time to time, as supple and flexible in the daylight hours as he was in their bed on a night – the thought made him flush. From this distance, he couldn’t really see what he was picking up, but he assumed that it was more shells, more pebbles and rocks and sea-glass and maybe even the odd fossil fragment. Crowley loved his sea-treasures. Most went back on the sand, but one or two, the really special ones Aziraphale supposed, were slipped into a pocket – no doubt to be shared with his angel at a later time.

Aziraphale’s stomach rumbled then, and, as if hearing it from half the beach away, Crowley turned and, on finding Aziraphale watching him, raised an arm in greeting. Beaming to himself, Aziraphale returned the gesture and then beckoned, tipping his chair back into its upright mode and reaching for the cool box. It was a lovely day. It was a lovely life.

~~**~~

They watched the sunset from the bench at the back of the house, the cool bag next to them from where they had finished off its contents in the comfort of their own garden. Aziraphale sat, his bare feet warmed by the smooth paving stones which had sat in the sun all day, Crowley lounged, his head in Aziraphale’s lap, his own feet, still dusted in sand, resting on the opposite arm. His hand was wrapped around Aziraphale’s ankle, Aziraphale’s fingers were drifting through his hair. Occasionally, Aziraphale would reach out for another piece of tapas, a mozzarella ball, an anchovy, a sliver of sun-dried tomato, and press it to Crowley’s lips, slipping it into his mouth when they obediently opened to him, before helping himself to another of the same. There was no conversation between them, there didn’t need to be, but the air around them still hummed with their communication.

Crowley shifted slightly as the glare of the sun became to much for him, and looked up at the angel rather than the view. Instantly, Aziraphale met his gaze, unable to stop his fingers trailing around to a sharply sculptured cheek bone and brushing it softly with his fingers tips, trailing the sprinkling of freckles there, the ones that appeared after every day in the sun and faded over night once more. He smiled, the love inside him warm and doughy, comforting in its solidity. “Are you wanting to go inside?” he asked softly, personally never wanting this day to end, but Crowley just smiled back and shook his head, closing his eyes as Aziraphale continued to trail patterns on his skin.

Aziraphale watched him, wondered if he would slide into sleep laid here as the evening turned into night, but he didn’t. He just lay there, his expression rinsed of everything anxious or worried, his skin tinted red by the dying sun, then orange, then purple, then, finally sliding into shadow. He shuddered then, as bats appeared in the indigo sky above, and Aziraphale frowned. “Cold?”

He shrugged, “A bit.”

But he didn’t make as if to move, though, and so Aziraphale pulled a fleece blanket into existence, making sure that it curled under his finely boned feet where they rested on the end of the bench. He miracle one for himself as well, not even noticing before that moment how chilled his own feet were becoming now that the sun had fled for the night.

“Thank you,” he whispered, turning his head to kiss Aziraphale’s fingers and prompting the angel to almost bend himself in half to press his own kiss to Crowley’s lips.

“You’re welcome,” he spoke the words almost into his mouth.

Lights came on then, all around the garden. Tiny, white lights, studded through the trees and winding around the fences. These were no magic show, though. These had been bought and hung by the two occupants of the house. Chosen for their solar properties and located with great care and consideration, and maybe a slight miracle or two.

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s head lifted as the change in light tugged his attention. “My dear, they look _lovely_! They must have had a really good charge today with all this sunshine.”

Crowley _hmmed_ in response and they slid into silence once more, holding hands now, as the night darkened, the stars awoke, and their own little slice of better-than-Heaven rolled on towards another day.

~~**~~ 

Tuesday 29th July 2025

It was a bright and sunny day, the blue of the sky visible in patches through the tops of the trees as Aziraphale wandered through the woods near the cottage. It was quiet, there were no roads which came this way and so you only got the very occasional rambler or very keen dog walker. Today, however, there was only the bird song and the sound of the wind in the trees.

Aziraphale was walking with no real destination in mind, no destination at all, in fact, and no purpose. He was happy to be here though, in this tiny slice of peace and tranquillity – it made a nice change.

The wood looked just as a wood should, and goodness, Aziraphale had seen enough of them through his long existence to know. Woods, forests, copses, jungles, thickets, rain forests, groves, coverts; he’d seen them all, walked them all, lived in a few of them, hidden in less… yes, he knew his woodland.

He’d never really walked in this one before, though, Crowley had, from time to time, he still liked periods of solitude, time to himself to sort through the things his busy mind kicked up. And that was the thing with Crowley, his brain was always on the go, always churning through things and coming up with things and examining things, always so very active. Aziraphale was, generally, the opposite, preferring to empty his mind and then refill it with the contents of a book – but Crowley’s brand of industrious intelligence fascinated him. He did understand though, how it could become too much and he didn’t begrudge him his time alone – even if he did worry for him.

But, the weather was far too nice for anything like that to stalk him today, he folded his fingers together across his stomach and wandered on.

It wasn’t much further on when he stopped, surprised to see a cat sitting in the middle of the path in front of him, its tail wound neatly around its paws, looking steadily into his eyes. Aziraphale wondered where it had come from, the nearest house was probably their own, and, of course they did not own a cat, but this one looked far too sleek and well-groomed to be feral. “Hello there,” he greeted it warmly, “Are you out for a stroll as well?”

For a moment, the cat just looked at him, green eyes unblinking, and then it turned, rising to its paws, tail in the air, glancing back over its shoulder as if to check that Aziraphale was still watching, before turning off the main path and heading along a smaller one which wound through the thickening trees.

“Oh,” Aziraphale took a step towards it and then stopped. Dutifully, the cat stopped too, looking over its shoulder again, waiting. “You want me to follow you?” Aziraphale chuckled to himself. “Well, how very irregular, wait until Crowley hears about this!” and then he set off, just managing to keep the waving tip of a black tail in view as they wandered further into the trees.

It became darker as they walked, the trees were packed together more densely and so it was becoming harder and harder to make out the glimpses of sky above. Aziraphale was kept busy, though, not only was he having to concentrate, at times, to spot a black cat in a dark forest, he was also constantly being distracted by the forest around him. A bright-eyed rabbit here, an iridescent hummingbird there, a red toadstool the size of a dinner plate to his left, a leaping marmoset up above him. The trees were alive, and in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach, a twisting feeling was starting up.

He pushed it down, though, he could see that, just ahead of him, the trees opened up once more and beyond that, the wide ribbon of blue sky called to him. He pushed forward, hurrying after the cat, pressing himself through snagging branches, heading for that promised warmth beyond and stumbling into a clearing right at the edge of the wood. He stopped. The wind was still whistling through the upper leaves and beyond the reach of the wood he could hear waves crashing onto the beach below – their beach – but there, in front on him, almost swallowed by the gloom of the trees in between, was a figure.

Aziraphale stepped forward, his eyes struggling to work out what he was seeing through the shadows obscuring his view, but yes, it was definitely a figure. They weren’t standing though, no, they were, Aziraphale’s chest tightened as he worked it out, no, they were hanging from a sturdy branch of a tree by their wrists which were pulled up high above them. It was the back of the figure he was looking at, largely swallowed by shadow, but human, head hanging limply so as to be unseen from this angle. It was all so dark though, so difficult to see properly.

Through the tightness of his throat, Aziraphale called out a cautious, “Hello?” but nothing moved, nothing stirred. He took a step in, blinking at the patches of darkness swathing the figure, trying to see through them to what was beyond.

It was then that he realised his mistake; the dark patches either side of the figure weren’t shadows at all, they weren’t swallowing something in their depths, they _were_ something, all by themselves, and Aziraphale knew, _precisely_ , what they were. He took a step further inwards, his legs shaking, his blood pounding through his head and looked more closely, clarified it all even as every single atom of his body clamoured in denial. The dark shapes spread so wide of the silent figure were _wings_ , wings which had been pulled out unnaturally tightly and secured to neighbouring tree trucks – with knives which seemed to pierce the joints at their very tips – and Aziraphale would know those wings anywhere.

Sweat standing out along his spine, tremors starting up in his tightly grasped fingers, Aziraphale took a step to the side, then another, then another, just as a gust of wind buffeted the hanging figure enough for it to swing slightly, turning as far as the pinioned wings would allow it, just enough so that Aziraphale could see the pale and blood-streaked face hanging down, chin on chest, those beloved amber eyes wide and staring and empty. Dead. Aziraphale screamed.

Panic seized him and he screamed and screamed and screamed, desperate to escape the horror before him, but suddenly ensnared in something which wound around him and held him fast. He thrashed, frantically, his vision swallowed in black. “Crowley!” No, how could this happen now? _How could this happen now?_ Crowley had promised him, he had absolutely promised him that they were safe, that no one would be coming back for them now. Why would he lie? How could he do this to Aziraphale? How could he leave him alone? _Again?_

“Crowley!” He thrashed and kicked, desperate to get away, desperate to get to that ragged, tortured body and drag it back to life. Drag the soul inside back to him. “Crowley!” he was sobbing now, great ugly gulps that tore up his throat and tried to steal his words and _still_ the unseen presence held him still, held him tightly, kept him close, kept him warm. “ _Crowley_!”

“I’m here, angel, I’m here.”

The trees were gone. That dreadful figure was gone. The smell of blood was gone. Aziraphale was in their bedroom, he was in Crowley’s arms, he was sobbing and panicked, soaked in sweat and tangled in the bedclothes, but he was safe and at home and – far more importantly – so was Crowley.

“It’s okay, you’re safe, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

~~**~~

It took a long time for Aziraphale to come down from that one, but, eventually, he was quiet again, laid against Crowley’s chest in the silence of their room, the lamp of the bedside table banishing the shadows to the very edges of the walls, clean, fresh bedding replacing the tangled, sweat damp prison, Crowley’s hand in his hair, Crowley’s arm around his shoulder, Crowley’s heart beating under his ear. He still saw it though, that dreadful, brutalised figure, every time he closed his eyes.

“It was a bad one, I’m guessing?” it was the first time that Crowley had spoken anything other than soothing mantras since Aziraphale had come back to himself.

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s voice was a dry croak.

A kiss was pressed into his hair. “I’ll never let them hurt you, I’ve told you that before.”

His heart swelled with love – his dear, sweetly optimistic Crowley. Aziraphale knew that Crowley’s motivation would not come into it, though, that it wouldn’t matter how desperately he _wanted_ to protect them both if judgement day came, he would not be able to do anything against the might of an Archangel or a Duke of Hell. And he would never tell Crowley that the nightmares that wracked him as he slept were not of what would happen to _him_ , anyway. Instead, he just shifted his head until he could press a kiss to the warm skin below and then lay down again to stare, sightlessly, at the drawers in front of him.

In time, Crowley shifted himself, shuffling down the bed until they were both laid on their sides, face to face, nose to nose. Crowley kissed him then, as deeply and as tenderly as only Crowley ever could. “We could make love?” he offered quietly, “If you would like to.”

Aziraphale didn’t have to think of an answer to that one, he wanted to make love with Crowley in every moment of every day. His response was a leaning inwards, a kiss of his own, deeper and wider and maybe a tad more desperate, but Crowley had his answer and later, when Crowley was moving inside him, lighting him on fire from the inside out, when they were pressed together, chest to chest, mouth to mouth, when Aziraphale arched his back and exploded – well, that ghastly, hanging image exploded too, wiped from his mind by the incandescent love which blasted through him from the glorious being in his arms.

How lucky was he to have _this_?

But for how much longer could that luck possibly last?

~~**~~ 


	31. Oh, My Darling Boy, What Have You Done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the final chapter, but it is growing by the minute and I still haven't even completed it. Instead, I have split it into this part and the next. Then there will be an epilogue and then we are done! Phew.
> 
> Just to let you know that I very much doubt I will make a Wednesday post this week. It will probably just be next weekend. Sorry about that, but I have a heavy week at work ahead. 
> 
> And another reminder - happy ending is guaranteed! :)
> 
> ____________________________________________________________________

The Autumn sunshine was slanting through the leaves of a beech tree as Crowley pulled up at the side of the road and into its dappled shade. Obediently, the Bentley cut her engine and sat back to wait. He turned to the angel in the passenger seat and smiled at him. “Alight?” Aziraphale was fussing with the bag of presents he had between his feet and glanced over, returning the smile in that way he had that made Crowley’s stomach twist.

“Of course,” the twist tightened and then knotted slightly as Aziraphale looked away. “Only,” the smile was dimming a little and Crowley felt the edges of shame gnawing at him, knowing that he was the cause, “Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”

Crowley's insides liquified and his resolve wavered – he never could stand firm in the face of those damn puppy eyes. He needed to, this time, he absolutely needed to and so he dragged the scraps of his determination together and forced himself to plough on. “Aw… you know I don’t have anything against Iris on her own,” that was a gross understatement, he loved her terribly, and he knew that Aziraphale knew that. “But Anathema said there’s going to be _twenty_ of them there, twenty five-year-olds. All running around and screaming and hearing all kinds of things about dinosaurs which we both know to be total bollocks anyway.”

“Iris loves dinosaurs.”

“I know she does, and she’s welcome to, I just don’t want to listen to it all morning.”

Aziraphale nodded, but resolutely tried again. “There will be cake, though,” he offered, “a huge one in the shape of an ankylosaurus.”

Crowley shook his head, “Cake’s far more your department than mine,” he countered. “And if I don’t come in, there’ll be more there for you.”

Sighing, Aziraphale turned his head to look at the imposing frontage of the Natural History Museum and Crowley felt that shame niggle again. It wasn’t that Aziraphale really minded going to the party without him, he knew that for sure, it was far more that he just didn’t want Crowley out of his sight, away from his side, for all that time. It wasn’t something they did much, it made them both extremely edgy. But that was the point, Crowley consoled himself, that was what he was going to fix this very day.

“It won’t be long,” he whispered, his fingers winding with Aziraphale’s across the seat. “And we need to do this, we need to prove that we can. That it’s okay. It _will be_ okay.”

It would. After today, this sword of Damocles would lift from over their heads and they would be able to start their life together anew, without the panic, without the nightmares that plagued Aziraphale’s rest, without the angel having to wonder if _this_ morning was going to be their last waking up together on Earth. Crowley was going to sort it, he bloody well was, but he needed to lie to his beloved angel in order to be able to do so.

Another sigh, Aziraphale’s eyes now on their intertwined fingers, “And what are you going to do with yourself, instead, then?”

Crowley gave him a squeeze. “I told you. I’m going to just wander around a bit. Sow some mischief,” he shrugged, “I’ve been very good this last year,” he looked up at Aziraphale from under his lashes, “I need to redress that just the tiniest bit.”

The slightest hint of a fond smile crooked the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “You better not get up to too much without me around to thwart you,” it was a half-hearted attempt at levity, but Crowley appreciated the bravery it had taken.

“Snake’s honour,” he said, pressing a palm over his heart. “And I’ll take you somewhere spectacular for dinner when you’re done. If you have room left, after all that cake.”

The smile bloomed a little at that and Aziraphale leaned in for a kiss. “You’re on.”

~~**~~

The bookshop was silent in the Sunday sunshine as Crowley let himself in. The lies he’d told Aziraphale to get here churned unpleasantly within him, but he reminded himself of their necessity, even as he admitted that his duplicity hadn’t stopped there…

The bookshop let him in, despite Newt locking her up the night before as he’d left for his Saturday evening busy with filling party bags for Iris’ big day, the doors opened wide for him, welcoming him in as they always had. He stopped just over the threshold and turned, sliding bolts in place and passing his palm over the lock, hearing the satisfying _thuds_ that would keep human interlopers at bay, before setting about sealing it to the less-human portion of the population as well – not that he expected anyone other than one, particular, angel would try to gain access. That was what made this whole escapade particularly abhorrent. He sealed the place up tight, felt the anxious thrum of a shop being ordered to keep its owner _out_ and stroked along a door frame, soothing the very best that he could.

“Trust me,” he whispered, telling the shop when he couldn’t tell the angel.

Job done, he stepped back, critically casting his eyes over his handiwork, checking and rechecking, knowing it wasn’t watertight, but realising that it would have to do, he was on the clock here, after all.

He turned to the rest of the shop, then, his eyes skipping around, seeing additions and changes that Newt had made, spotting the items he was familiar with, even in his limited exposure to the shop in recent months. Enough was the same though, and he knew that the particular bit he needed would absolutely still be there. He stepped back and orientated himself a little, then put his palms to the side of the Newton-neat desk and heaved it out of the way, glancing down at the dusty, threadbare carpet which looked to have started its days in Persia or somewhere else far more exotic than even Soho, before bending and rolling it back.

Beneath the dust, there was a small circle chalked onto the floorboards, surrounded by passages that Crowley recognised to be from the Cabala. Crowley checked them all carefully, then pulled out his phone and compared them to photographs he’d taken back at their cottage, pages and pages from Aziraphale’s books, Crowley creeping around like a thief in the night as his angel had fitfully slept in the bedroom across the hallway. Everything seemed to be just right, though, just as he thought it would be, and so, rather reluctantly, he moved onto the next stage of his operation.

Opening his hand, Crowley stared, balefully, at the seven tealight candles which suddenly sat there. He didn’t like this part of the plan at all, and the worst of it was, he wasn’t even sure why. Something about these candles, about lighting them in this shop, twisted him uncomfortably inside – he supposed it must just be because of all the tinder-dry books stacked around everywhere, but they were a necessary evil, the plan could not proceed without them and so, he carefully placed each one at certain points around the circle and then, even more carefully, he lit them. Then he stood back.

Everything looked just fine, everything looked perfect, it was time to push on and his snake’s stomach squirmed as he shucked off his jacket. What the fuck was he doing here? What on Earth was he thinking? What was he risking? When he and Aziraphale had been through so much just to distance themselves from those feathery bastards up above?

But then… memories of his angel crying and thrashing as he writhed, terrified, in their bed assaulted him. His beautiful, generous, gentle, kind-hearted angel screaming and sobbing and cringing in terror at the fears which stalked his mind at night. And not just at night either. Crowley had seen, oh, far too many times to count, the moments when the fear that either one of them could be stuck down at any point caught up with him, paralysed him, stole his breath and his rational thought and made him tremble and cower and cling to Crowley like a life-raft. How was Crowley supposed to just stand around and let all that be their lives now? Let Aziraphale’s happiness be tainted in dread and terror?

Especially when the angel had done so, so much for him – for his own peace of mind.

Crowley stood in the silent bookshop suddenly lost in the memories of making love, of being weighted down into the mattress by Aziraphale’s warmth, of being so completely surrounded in his love and his heat and his care, of feeling the angel rocking inside him, pressing him into the bed, every inch of him from his forehead to his toes, whilst he was completely and utterly _loved_. He remembered the _hours_ they could do that for, hours and hours, when everything about the angel just squeezed all of his tension and angst and that dreadful, vibrating anxiety out of him, when every slick thrust, every warm kiss to his shoulder, every endearment whispered straight into his ear exposed his midnight trips of the depths of the Channel for the poor substitute they really were. He’d never been back, not since the first night when his wonderful, _clever_ angel had worked out what it was that he really needed and gave him exactly that. It wasn’t about coming, although they both did, loud and sweet and so, so _hard_ , it was about the journey to get there, the proof that Crowley could feel in every atom of his being that he was _not alone_.

How could he _not_ fix this for Aziraphale, when Aziraphale had done that for him? 

Taking in a shuddering, deep breath and forcing himself back into the present, he returned to his phone, flicking through the pictures until he found the one he needed and standing a moment longer, mouth silently practising the same words he’d long since memorised as he walked through the woods near their home. Okay. It was time. He was ready. He could do this. He _would_ do this. He would free Aziraphale as Aziraphale had freed him.

Bolstering his nerve one final time, he stepped into the circle and determinedly said the Words.

Then, he waited.

~~**~~

Two miles across London, Aziraphale could not settle. They had done the dinosaur tour, and they had dressed up in dinosaur masks and stomped around with their dinosaur feet. Now, they were in the gaily decorated party room with twenty five-year-olds who all seemed as keen to get the grapes and crisps and sausages and cheese cubes on the floor as they were to get them into their mouths. Anathema and Newt, plus Sandy, who was their birthday guide from the museum, were all doing a sterling job at pouring juice and wiping up spills, whilst Aziraphale could do little else but stand at the window and stare out across London and _fret_.

A hand on his arm brought him back to the room and the laughter as Sandy made dinosaurs out of twisty balloons. Anathema’s smile greeted him as he landed, “Alright?” she asked.

Aziraphale smiled, “I’m so sorry,” he was, he really was. “I just,” he shrugged and threw another glance out of the window. “I just have a bit of a bad feeling about this.”

Abruptly, Anathema’s smile wavered, and Aziraphale felt his decorative heart kick up a notch in his chest. “What kind of bad feeling?” she asked, in a voice that was obviously designed not to worry him. It failed.

He shrugged, “Just a bad feeling, that’s all.”  
  


“The same one you get whenever you’re separated? Or worse?”

Aziraphale flushed, why was she just so _astute_? “Worse,” he clarified. “Nothing specific, just worse though. I’m sorry, my dear, I know I’m just being silly… Crowley is always telling me so.”

The smile was back then, and Anathema’s fingers tightened on his arm, “Go on,” he felt her love even through his own guilt. “Go and track him down.”

The guilt swirled higher inside him. “But – it’s Iris’ _birthday_!”

“No, it’s not,” Anathema was already pushing him towards the door, “It’s only her party. Her birthday is on Wednesday, as well you know. Come for birthday tea, both of you. She would like that.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale could feel the familiar old anxiety twisting within him as his hands wound together in front of his midriff. “But I hate to let her down _now_.”

Anathema laughed. “Aziraphale, she loves you dearly, both of you, but do you really think that she’ll miss you now? If you leave?” she nodded across the room at that and Aziraphale followed her eyes, his own lips quirking into a smile as he saw her, cheeks red, green icing smeared all around her mouth, a plastic velociraptor mask riding on top of her head, a balloon diplodocus on top of that, laughing so hard she was threatening to tip off her chair as Sandy let striped balloons _squeeeee_ off around the room.

The warm suffusing of love for her innocence and her joy bolstered his nerve. “Point taken,” he admitted, and, with a final kiss of apology and a wave Newt’s way, he was off.

~~**~~

Aziraphale felt Crowley straight away. As soon as he was out of the museum and standing on the pavement outside, he’d reached out and, yes, there he was, not so far away, still here, still close, but, Aziraphale started walking along Exhibition Road, _muted_ somehow? As if he were under a shroud of some kind. The angel quickened his pace.

Ever since that first night when Aziraphale had sat on their bench in St. James’ park and learned to reach out and find him, he’d had an awful lot of practice. Paranoia made perfect, he supposed. And yes, something was _off_ , something was not quite right, but Crowley was still there, still near and so Aziraphale would not panic. He would not.

It took seventy-five minutes, all in all, to narrow his position down and, the moment that Aziraphale had begun to guess where he may be heading, his anxiety had leapt up another ten levels. It struck him as he walked along the side of Green Park, and the second that he thought of it, of Crowley in his bookshop, he just knew that it was true. But why? For what? And that meant that Crowley had lied to him. Crowley had never lied to him, not in six thousand years. Fudging the facts was one thing, but outright lying? No – this had never happened before. What on Earth could be happening that was so terrible that it had to start _now_?

He quickened his pace, tempted to miracle himself straight there but worried that he may miss something along the route. He pushed on, almost running along the pavement by the time he saw the Bentley sitting innocently at the side of the road and threw himself, frantically, against the doors to the shop. They wouldn’t open. He stopped, eyes wide, chest heaving and cold fear trickling along his spine. The shop had always opened for him before. Always. It was _his_ shop. If the doors were refusing to budge it could only be for one, single reason – that something ethereal or occult had interfered with them.

Panic was starting to gnaw at his bones. The strange, shrouded feeling he’d been getting from Crowley all day was now sharpening, but it was sharpening with something a little too like fear for Aziraphale to easily stomach.

“Open up!” he commanded, barging at the door with his shoulder, but only succeeding in rattling his own teeth and drawing the attention of the Soho public his way. Gritting his jaw against the pain in his shoulder, the fear in his heart and the frustration coursing through him, Aziraphale bent and tried to spy in through the gaps around the door blinds. They had been pulled down far too well, though, the letter box had been sealed, the key holes obscured, and now, as the fear he could feel streaming from Crowley solidified, he began to panic in earnest.

A thought struck him and he scurried around to the side, rising up on his toes to try and see through the dusty windows, but that one afforded him a view of nothing but bookshelves, the next, the same, the next, his heart stuttered, there… there. Crowley _was_ in the bookshop, of course he was. Aziraphale could just see him, just by standing right on his tip toes and craning his neck around a bookshelf, he could see him sitting cross-legged on the floor – no, not on the floor, his heart ran cold, _in the centre of the Heavenly portal_. What on earth was he _thinking_? He was still dressed in the wine-red shirt he’d put on that morning, form fitting and beautiful, with the black waistcoat neatly over the top. His jacket had gone, though, and more surprising, his wings were out, oil black and iridescent in the half-light, folded neatly against his back, but out just the same. Aziraphale frantically wondered why, wondered if they were out for protection, a show of strength, an intimidation or – his blood ran cold – whether Crowley was somehow using them as a bargaining chip.

What would Heaven want with Crowley’s wings, though? What would Heaven want with Crowley? In fact, what would _Crowley_ want with _Heaven_? What on Earth did he think he was playing with, here? It was then, as Crowley shifted slightly and the light fell differently, that Aziraphale noticed his face. It was upturned, washed in silver and he was speaking, obviously to some being from Heaven and now that Aziraphale was looking for it, he could see the glow coming from behind one of the larger stacks. He wondered who it was, could only pray that it wasn’t Gabriel. Crowley was speaking, but, Aziraphale’s feeling had been correct, he was scared, Aziraphale could see it in his naked eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the tilt of his chin – whatever it was that the being just out of sight was telling him, Crowley did not like it one little bit.

Aziraphale stretched over and hammered on the window, his fist smarting with the force, but he could tell that every sound he made was simply being swallowed by the protection that had been wrapped around the shop – the protection that Crowley had set up. To keep Aziraphale out? The thought was repugnant. He hammered again, in pure frustration this time, and then went back to the doors, striking them with his fists, yelling Crowley’s name, kicking at the ancient wood, uncaring of the attention he was receiving from the foot traffic around him.

It was useless.

He stopped, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to the glass and tried to think around the fear he was getting from Crowley, even as it cycled higher and higher, trickling into his veins, terrifying him in his helplessness. “Please,” he spoke to the shop, directly to the shop, right from the bottom of his heart. “I don’t know what he’s said to you, I don’t know what he was planning, but can’t you feel it? Can’t you feel how frightened he is?” he took a deep breath and the fear spiked to painful heights. “I don’t know what he was expecting, but surely it wasn’t this. Let me in. Let me help him. _Please_.”

Nothing.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Okay. Right. Well then, he wasn’t about to just stand here and allow whatever this was that Crowley had cooked up to play out to destruction without helping. He would blast his way in; there was nothing else that he could do. He lifted his head, took a step back, drew in a breath and then – _click_ – the door popped open, just an inch.

He burst forward, wrenching the door wide and darting in, “Crowley!” He could feel the holiness of the place, unnatural after all this time, unpleasant even, as it pushed at every one of his senses. “Crowley!” Why wasn’t he answering?

As he dashed onwards, skirting around the piles of books that Newt had not dared to touch yet, cursing, for the very first time, how they got in his way. He realised that the holy glow that had accompanied Crowley at the back of the shop had gone and his heart stuttered in his chest. The glow had gone, so that meant that the portal must have closed, and if the portal had closed then… where was Crowley?

“Crowley!” his heart tore over the word – was he going to lose him? Was he? He couldn’t, he just absolutely _could not_. “Crowley!” he skidded around a corner, hand grabbing at the nearest shelf to steady himself as his breath caught in his throat at the sight that greeted him. There was the circle, carefully chalked onto the wooden boards, just as it always had been, but this time there was a demon slumped in it, a demon whose body was jolting and jerking as if electrocuted, his eyes wide open, his wings trembling, his feathers rustling and Aziraphale’s boneshaking relief that he hadn’t been taken into Heaven was tempered by a fresh wave of fear as to what this actually _was_.

“Crowley, my darling,” his knees hit the floor and his hands went out, fluttering helplessly over the jerking body, trying to find a pulse, trying to hold him still, trying to smooth away the hurt, the damage. There was nothing he could do though, no way for his grace to seep into whatever it was that was causing Crowley’s body so much trauma, nothing he could do except cradle his head up off the floor, stroke his face, feeling the absolute tension of every tiny muscle, and hope: hope and hope and _hope_ like he hadn’t done in years.

It was torture, and it seemed to go on for hours. Every single jerk that ripped through Crowley’s body also ripped through Aziraphale’s heart. Every single hiss and grunt was like a knife in the chest. Aziraphale just held him, pillowing his head in his lap, stroking tenderly and murmuring a blanket of soothing nonsense, hoping that at least some of it could get through to the demon inside.

With a final vicious lurch, Crowley’s body finally stilled, the rigidity leaving it and with the abruptness of a puppet with its strings cut. He slumped into the floor, slumped into Aziraphale’s lap, his eyes sliding closed and his wings shimmering back onto the other plane. It was all so very sudden – Aziraphale himself also froze, his heart hammering against his ribs, a trickle of cold sweat running down his spine.

“Crowley?” oh, how his voice shook. What was this? What had they done to him _now_? “Crowley?” Still nothing, not a flicker, not a single movement. The colour was leeching from his already-pale skin even as Aziraphale watched, his eyelids were like bruises, his lips bloodless. The angel reached out with a shaking palm and pressed it, firmly down in the place where he knew a heart should beat. Then he banished the steaming panic from his mind and forced himself to concentrate, to pour every single part of him down the link they shared, searching, desperately searching for what might be at the end of it. 

And… the relief hit him like a steam train. Ohh… yes, there it was, there was that achingly familiar presence, a little beaten around, more than a little bit dazed and confused, but it was there, just – regrouping, just hauling itself back together after whatever trauma it had suffered this afternoon. Shaking, Aziraphale gathered him up in his arms, trying not to freak out anew at the unfamiliar limpness, trying to hold himself together, to be strong when Crowley so obviously needed him to be. “What have you done?” he whispered as he held him and rocked him and tried not to sob all over him. “Oh, my darling boy, what have you done?”

~~**~~


	32. He Wasn’t the Type to Lie Down and Die Quietly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh! Last chapter! Only the epilogue to go, and I might even be able to get that out tomorrow if work isn't too horrific. 
> 
> I am thrilled to get this done - but I'm also so sad to see it go! It was never meant to turn into the monster it has, but I have really enjoyed discovering what happened along with all the lovely readers who have shared the journey. GO is such a fabulous fandom, let's keep it that way!
> 
> Anyway - enjoy as we tidy up a few more loose ends :)
> 
> ________________________________________________________

Crowley felt that he was floating, gliding maybe, sliding through warm, dark air without a care in the world, without a thought in his head. It was nice, to be that free, so of course it wouldn’t last, of course it wouldn’t, and his helpful consciousness started collecting together all of his aches and pains, all of his fears and woes, slotting them into place like books on a shelf until the weight of them ruined his ability to soar on the thermals and he began to circle back down again.

He didn’t rush the process, he couldn’t quite remember what it was that he’d been hiding from as he soared in imaginary thermals, but there was the most overwhelming feeling swirling inside him that he had been a disappointment somehow, that he had done something he really shouldn’t have done – and that someone very important to him was hurting because of it.

The warmth came back to him first, the heavy warmth of arms and legs around him and he was pleased that, no matter what he had done, he hadn’t been abandoned for it. That was something, that had to count for something. Then came his hearing, latching on to the melodious tones which exactly fit the resonance of his own heart. A soothing monologue, a safety line drawing him home.

“ _She grew absolutely ashamed of herself_ ,” The voice read. “ _Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd._

“‘ _How despicably I have acted!’ she cried. ‘I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! Who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity, in useless or_ -‘”

“ _Pride and Prejudice_ , angel?” the reading instantly stopped. “You really hate me that much?” Crowley was ashamed at how dry and tight his voice sounded.

“Crowley!” there was a thump of a book hitting a thick and luxurious carpet, then the surface Crowley was laid on bounced and shifted, and then warm hands were on him, running up and down his aching limbs, stroking his face, petting his hair. “Oh, _Crowley,_ you worried me so much!”

“I’m sorry,” he turned into all that angelic heat, burying his nose in the familiar smell of it, letting Aziraphale’s arms pull him closer, hold him tighter. “I didn’t mean to. I swear I did not mean to worry you; I would never do that.”

“I know,” the arms around him tightened further still and he was appalled to hear the edges of a sob tugging at his angel’s voice, he found his own arms, forced them to move despite the screams of protest each muscle made in response and wound them around his shuddering angel, melding them together once more.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale had shifted down the bed to lay alongside him and he could feel the angel crying into his neck, desperate little sobs that were obviously supposed to be secret, and guilt, hot and nasty, burned through him as he clung on tighter. “Oh, angel, I’m so, so sorry.”

They lay together in their warm nest as Crowley finally landed back on Earth and Aziraphale expelled the some of the fear that lived within him through his tears. Crowley felt him still, felt him pull himself back together and then, with a sigh, felt him pull away again. “Crowley.”

Crowley’s heart sank at the tone of that voice _._

“Crowley, open your eyes and look at me.”

He didn’t know if he could, he really didn’t know if he could. He might have been brave enough to try the stunt he’d pulled at the bookshop – and look where that had got him – but open his eyes and see the disappointment shining in Aziraphale’s? No. He would never be brave enough for that.

“I have a headache,” he mumbled. His brain _was_ pounding against his skull; but that was not why he couldn’t look, and it seemed that lying to one’s beloved, once started, was an easy path to follow.

“ _Crowley._ ”

But ignoring that tone, was not.

Carefully, cautiously, he lifted his eyelids, keeping his head bowed and just peering up through his lashes instead. Aziraphale was looking at him as expected, but instead of the crushing disappointment that Crowley had expected to see, there was a torrent of love instead, a swirling, foaming, rushing stream of love which slammed into him and almost knocked him from the bed.

“Crowley,” a hand slid around his jaw, tipping him back and he realised his eyes had closed once more. “I l _ove_ you.” Tears pressed against his eyelids. “Whatever it is that you ever feel that you need to do, wherever you feel you need to go, well, that’s alright, of course it’s alright. But please, _please_ don’t lock me out. Please ask yourself if it is something we could do together, something we _should_ do together. If I we can’t save each other, then we go out together, because, quite honestly my dearest, I would rather die by your side than live an eternity without you.” 

That thought was abhorrent. Imagining Aziraphale hurt in any manner was bad enough, but to imagine him destroyed, removed from Creation for ever more. No – just no. Crowley knew that that was selfish in the highest possible echelon of selfishness, but what the Hell, demon, right? Except, how would he be able to live if Aziraphale was removed from him forever? He would rather cease to exist than to try, how could he expect the same of Aziraphale?

And this, this feeling, this predicament, this _guilt_ was worse, that was far, far worse than any speech on disappointment Aziraphale could have come up with because Crowley felt it anyway, all of it, but in this way it had all come from him, none from the angel, and self-censure was always so much more painful. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice tight, “I have never meant to leave you alone.”

Then it was his turn to cry, desperate halting gasps, tears that forced themselves out of his eyes even when they’d been expressly ordered to stay where they _bloody well were_. Crowley hated crying, had always hated it, it was one human trait he’d picked up over the years that he could absolutely do without.

Aziraphale held him, though, and stroked his hair and kissed his temple and told him how precious he was, how loved, and Crowley found himself wondering if those words would ever bring him peace and not awaken thoughts of shame and worthlessness.

He was well-practised in corralling wayward emotions, and so, eventually, he too managed to force it all back under control. He lifted his face, swollen eyelids still pressed closed, as Aziraphale stroked his hair back and blindly reached out for a kiss. It was a leap, in his mind, and he was relieved beyond it all when it was enthusiastically returned and for a few, blessed, minutes Aziraphale and his touch and his love and his kiss were all that existed in the world.

Like all good things, however, there had to be an end, and like everything done the world over, there had to be a reckoning and so it was that Crowley found himself expertly manoeuvred around in the bed unto he was laid with his head on the wing of Aziraphale’s shoulder, the angel’s arms around him, his around the angel and their legs tangled up together under the covers; if they were going to have to have this conversation, then this was the only possible way that Crowley would be able to get through it.

“So, how long have we been here?” his voice was studiously casual, desperately hoping to stave off the questions he knew were burning Aziraphale’s tongue.

“Ah, ah, ah!” but of course the angel had not been born yesterday. “Oh no you don’t, you wily serpent. Don’t think you’re getting out of this that easily. I would like you first to explain to me just what, in all the kingdoms of the Earth, you thought you were doing by summoning someone from Heaven for goodness sake!”

Straight away, Crowley could feel all that anxiety leaping up inside the angel and that, _that_ was what he had risked himself for! Had it been a waste of time? Could he be persuaded to let it be? Could he be distracted somehow? Crowley sighed, like Hell he could. He silently admitted defeat, locked all of his frustration away and forced his voice into an approximation of calm before he began. “You never believed me,” he explained quietly, gently, without censure of his own. “No matter how many times I told you that they wouldn’t be coming back for us, you never believed me.”

He felt Aziraphale’s exasperated huff under his ear. “It wasn’t that I didn’t believe you, dear boy! It was more – well, how could you possibly _know_?”

“I know, that’s what I meant, really. You _couldn’t_ believe me, you needed the proof, and so I thought I would go and get us some.”

There was a pause at that, long and heavy and loaded with possibility. “You thought that you would _get us some_?”

“Yeah.”

“From Heaven?”

“Absolutely.”

Crowley was just starting to think that, perhaps this was going to be much, much easier than he’d imagined it would, when Aziraphale snapped back into life. “And I’m guessing that them trying to _destroy_ you was all the proof that we needed, then, right?” the huffy anxiety was straight back and frustrated, Crowley shook his head.

“No! Not at all! No one was trying to kill me, that was something else completely! The _proof_ , well, the proof bit went fine.”

“ _Fine_?” the word dripped in disdain. “Please share with me, Crowley, what part of all this you think is _fine_. Lying to me? Because you don’t do that. Not normally,” more shame. “Sneaking around behind my back? Risking yourself without even _warning_ me? Summoning the very beings who have tried to kill you on many, _many_ occasions over the last seven years? Locking me out of my own bookshop whilst you used my portal for whatever nefarious purposes you pleased? And, now I think about it, where did you get the Words you needed from? And the correct passages from the Cabala? I suppose that was from my books as well then, was it?” his righteous anger zipped through him, fizzing painfully against Crowley’s bare skin. “Just how long have you been planning this for anyway!?”

The bedroom slid into silence the only the sounds were the birds outside, voicing their twittering opinions on the emotions being thrown around inside.

Crowley pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s chest. “I’m sorry,” and he was, he was always so absolutely sorry for upsetting his angel, for doing everything so very wrong.

Beneath him, Aziraphale’s chest rose in a huge intake of air and then fell again, expelling it all, expelling all his anger as well, it seemed, as his hand came up and ran through Crowley’s hair once more before settling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “I _know_ you are, and I am too. I didn’t mean to get angry with you. It’s just…”

“I know, angel.”

“I thought I’d lost you again.”

“I know.”

“And I love you far too much to be able to bear that.”

Crowley swallowed.

They drifted in silence again, Crowley was so unsure where to start without prickling Aziraphale all over again that, instead, he waited and waited, until, finally, he felt the angel take yet another deep breath in and let it all out so very slowly and then, “Alright dearest, so… proof?”

“Yeah,” Crowley cleared his throat and martialled his thoughts into order. “So, I opened the portal, said I wanted to talk to them, and, well, they kept me waiting a bit, bastards, but they answered eventually-”

“They answered you?”

“Yeah.”

“ _Who_?”

“The Metatron.”

“Oh.”

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale close to him and kissed his chest again. “Don’t be like that, angel,” he admonished gently, remembering what Aziraphale had told him about Heaven refusing to answer _his_ call. “They were always going to listen to _me_ – I’m the enemy, right? Keep your friends close and all that. You think that an angel buzzing down into Hell wouldn’t get fast-tracked every day of the week?”

He could feel Aziraphale pondering beneath him although his response was low, tight. “I suppose so, yes dear. I hadn’t really thought of it like that.”

Crowley kissed him again. “So, the Metatron appeared, and I just _asked_ him, really, what Heaven’s plans were regarding us, whether they were intent on hauling you back up there to face the music and whatnot,” he shrugged. “That’s all.”

Aziraphale was obviously astounded. “You just asked?” he clarified, and Crowley nodded. “And he just _told_ you?”

At this, though, the demon laughed and shook his head. “No. Course he didn’t.”

“So?”

“So, I had to work hard, angel, that’s all. I had to lie and spin a tale and poke at his holier-than-thou pretensions, and I managed, eventually, to get a few, salient, facts out of him.”

“Like what?” Aziraphale’s cautious optimism was heart wrenching.

“Well, like,” Crowley wondered where to start, “as far as they are concerned, you are on a permanent sabbatical on Earth. They’re even telling themselves they sanctioned it. Like, they don’t have any designs on destroying any demons just at the minute, not unless any demons strike the first blow of course. Like, they’re now saying that Gabriel has been acting as an independent agent these last few years down here, and that nothing he has done has been in Heaven’s name. Like, it was Michael, apparently, who decreed that we be left alone.” He paused at that, wondered how Aziraphale would take it, knew that the angel had thought, had _hoped_ , that it was the Almighty who had intervened in their protection.

Aziraphale’s frown was almost audible. “Left alone?” of course he would seize hold of that part. “And – do you believe them?”

“Angel,” Crowley blew out a long breath as he carefully chose his words. “I know that Heaven is full of pompous shits, and, as such, have you ever known them to lie? In my opinion, they are far too arrogant to feel the need.”

Silence, and this time it was Aziraphale’s _thoughts_ that were almost audible.

“And Gabriel,” he asked eventually, carefully, “Did they say what had become of him? If he’s been a ‘loose cannon’, as they say, these last few years, then what hope do we have that he won’t just carry on in exactly the same manner? If he is able…”

Crowley’s heart picked up the beat in his chest at that, and he swallowed, this was the bit he’d been dreading. He shuffled a little bit closer to his angel, laid his ear down on the comforting thump of an angelic heart and felt his love swell within him as Aziraphale tugged him closer in return, rubbed the pads of his fingers through his closely shorn hair. “Well, no,” he admitted quietly. “And, to be honest, that was the point when it all went a bit _off piste_ …”

There was a pause, the gentle fingers stopped dead. “ _Off piste_?” Aziraphale’s tone could have cut steel.

Crowley pressed himself even closer, “Yeah. It’s a skiing term. It means-”

“I _know_ what it means, Crowley! I’m just wondering if the rather blasé description was in reference to why I found you convulsing on the floor of my bookshop and positively dripping in angelic essence!”

Crowley cringed, “Yeah,” he acknowledged dryly. “Yeah, I suppose it probably was.”

The chest beneath his ear was like marble, Aziraphale’s voice like granite. “Explain.”

With a breath, Crowley started once more. “Well, me asking about Gabriel must have rung some bells up in Heaven because the next thing I know, the Metatron is gone and its Uriel standing there,” he felt Aziraphale’s jolt and squeezed reassuringly as he continued. “Yeah, I know, I thought that too.”

_ Three days previous, Aziraphale’s bookshop, Soho _

_It had been totally unexpected, one moment Crowley had been standing there, hands in his pockets, shoulders slouched in a carefully measured display of insouciance, smiling, crookedly at the Metatron as he tried to navigate through the twisting treacle of Crowley’s words, the next, the giant benign face had vanished and, instead, there was a tightly would Archangel in its place, brown eyes flashing like the gold trailing down her forehead and nose. He took a step back, stumbling over the ubiquitous stray book and folding in on himself, a collapsing house of cards, ending up landing smartly on his arse, his wings flaring out in automatic self-preservation. The impact stole his breath, hijacked his clever words, and all he could do, as he watched Uriel’s eyes flicking around the room, searching for him, was apologise, silently and hopelessly, for what his inevitable destruction would do to Aziraphale._

_Finally, that impassive face swung down, and Crowley felt the weight of her stare as it landed on him, felt the weight of her anger and knew that his time was up. “Demon,” her voice was tight and carried enough angelic wrath to make him cringe and fold his legs up in front of him. “What are you doing down there?”_

_Crowley paused, definitely surprised that the smiting had not been instantaneous, and tried to muster what pride he had left, sitting, as he was, cross-legged in front of an Archangel like a naughty schoolboy. “Uriel,” he greeted instead, dredging up a smile from somewhere deep. “What a pleasant surprise.”_

_Uriel looked at him then, right at him, right through him, and he shuddered, feeling all of that cold, angelic aloofness as it rampaged through his personal space, inviting itself into every dark and secret corner of his demonic being. He lifted his chin and held her eyes; he wasn’t sure what she was seeing as he stripped him bare like this, but he sure as Hell wasn’t going to let her shame him for what he simply_ was _._

_She pulled back and he shuddered once more, she’d felt nothing like the smooth warmth of Aziraphale. He supposed that now she had examined the evidence of him – his sentence would swiftly follow and, this time, there was no angel here to save him. He’d fucked this whole thing up monumentally, but nothing that Uriel was going to do to him here and now was worse than knowing how all of this would destroy Aziraphale._

_“I didn’t want to make trouble,” he wasn’t the type to lie down and die quietly, “I only wanted some answers.”_

_Uriel looked at him, her head tilted to one side. “Always did want answers, didn’t you?” her voice was quiet, but still managed to set his teeth on edge, like chalk on a board. “But then, it’s hard to learn lessons when you can’t remember any of it.”_

_Crowley’s cheeks flared and he tugged his knees a little closer to his chest. He hated feeling wrong-footed, and there was nothing more wrong-footing than having someone else remember more about_ you _than you could. “Can’t have everything, though, can you? Looks, charm, brains,” he shrugged, nonchalant, “there’s more to life than remembering.”_

_Uriel’s expression didn’t flicker, even the edges of her mouth did not twitch in response to his desperate attempts at humour. “Maybe you’re right,” she intoned instead. “A convenient loss of memory would save you from the excruciating knowledge of the way that this whole debacle,” she gestured, snappishly, his way, “has shamed the very core of Heaven.”_

_Crowley flushed again and felt the cold wave of fear as it washed through him anew: any moment now she was going to smite him into the middle of next week then go and hunt Aziraphale down as well and there was nothing he could do to stop any of it. Not that he wasn’t going to try – at least to save his angel, it was all he had left after all._

_“Nothing I do reflects on Heaven,” he countered, his voice held ruthlessly steady. “I’m a demon, like you said. I wile and I cheat and I lie and I drag others down with me if I can,” he shrugged, “It’s what I do, it’s what the Dark Lord expects me to do, and if I can drag an angel or two down, even the tiniest way from the ideals of Heaven, then, well,” he pushed out a flat little laugh. “The Dark Council are going to love that, now, aren’t they?”_

_Uriel looked at him, blinked at him – he realised that she blinked as infrequently as he himself did – and shook her head. “This is not on you, serpent. No matter the temptation you presented, we are the Heavenly Host, we should be stronger. Our Mother’s Son resisted your deceit in the desert, the soldiers of Heaven should be able to do likewise.”_

_Hot, angry panic flared in Crowley’s chest. What was this? Aziraphale was being held solely responsible for everything the two of them had done together across the ages? For doing their joint best to derail the Apocalypse? Crowley might not remember any of it, but he knew with a surety down to the marrow of his demonic bones, that it had been mostly him, mainly him, always him tempting at the angel’s side._

_“No!” the panic was eating away at his fear. “It wasn’t the angel, it was never the angel, it was me – you can’t just decide to overlook that truth!”_

_“The truth is that you are a demon, and, inimicalness towards you, was inimicalness towards Hell. We were lucky to avoid a full-scale war with the Fallen, a war which would had severely damaged us in every way. It was selfish and reckless and a blatant disregarding of Her wishes. Your opinions, the opinions of a single, worthless demon, on the motivation of an angel, stand for nothing against all of that.”_

_Crowley was confused, he hadn’t got much further than trying to work out the subtle meanings of the word ‘inimicalness’, and in his distraction, he seemed to have completely lost the direction of Uriel’s thread. “A war?” Did anyone seriously think that Hell would raise arms in his defence? They’d probably stand and applaud, if truth be told. But applaud_ what _? Was Uriel suggesting that Aziraphale had ever acted with hostility towards him? Crowley might not have his memories, but that was something he just knew was bollocks._

_“A war we were lucky to avoid. And now we need to show that we in Heaven are not above restoration. That we are brave enough to take the necessary steps to correct the damage wrought by our operative.”_

_Damage? Crowley’s blood ran cold. What was this? The Apocalypse? They were what? Trying to undo everything that he and the angel had worked so hard to achieve? How? The implications of this were huge, not just for Aziraphale, but for Adam, who was off living his best human life, for his friends, for Anathema and Newton – for Iris._

_“How? What?” the fear was back, swirling and choking and making it impossible to form a thought coherently._

_“Our plans for one of our own are precisely that, demon,_ our own _. But rest assured, he will be contained, he will be unable to wreak havoc in the way he has before. We will take care of our own mistakes.”_

_“He’s not a mistake!” red hot tendrils of anger threaded through his fear. How dare she talk about Aziraphale like that? Aziraphale was the very best of all of them, the very best._

_Uriel raised her eyebrows at him. “I’m surprised you think that, but I suppose it’s hard to throw off your deviance isn’t it? Demon that you are. Even if you are a victim.”_

_“Victim?” None of this made sense._

_“But I have my orders. This mess needs tidying away and I have spent as much time conversing with a demon as I am willing. You may not want reparation, but that is my role here,” she lifted her hand._

_“No!” Crowley wasn’t ready, would he ever be ready to face his end? But he wasn’t ready now. Could he fight her? Once he was destroyed, she would go for Aziraphale, that he was sure of, and he was not going to let that happen, not if there was anything he could do to stop it, not on his watch. He reached out, felt for the strands that wove time together and prepared to tug himself just a few seconds out of sync with the rest of the world._

_He never got that far though, before he’d even found his first thread something slid over him, something cold and dense, separating him from his powers, dampening them like turf on a bonfire. He pushed back, kicked out with everything he had but it was no use, there was no shifting the weight that just pressed further and further in on him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he was panicking, flailing about in desperation, “Angel, I’m so, so sorry.”_

_And then came the killer blow. He had no idea what Uriel had done to him, couldn’t see through the choking presence that had stolen all of his senses, but the pain was excruciating. It seared into his brain, white hot and icy cold, sharp and jagged and blunt and bludgeoning all at once. He couldn’t defend himself, he couldn’t stop the onslaught, he couldn’t cry for help, he couldn’t beg for mercy. Dimly, he was aware of Uriel stepping closer to where he writhed, helpless, on the floor at her feet._

_“Reparation delivered,” her voice amplified the agonies in his head. “He will not bother either of you again.”_

_Crowley couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he was barely aware of himself as he jerked and shuddered in the light of the Heavenly portal. ‘So this is destruction,’ it was the only thought in his head, that and, ‘I thought it would have been faster,’ and, of course, ‘I’m sorry Angel’._

_And then, as if his despairing consciousness had conjured him up in a desperate chance to say goodbye, there he was, his smell, his touch, his presence, swaddling Crowley in his fear and his agony._

_Abruptly, it was all gone, all the pain, that suffocating weight on his being, it was all draining away, but, rather worrying, it seemed to be taking Crowley with it. He fought to stay, fought and scrabbled and scrambled and desperately tried to anchor himself on the essence of Aziraphale he could feel all around him, but it was no good._

_“What have you done?” the whisper reached him from what sounded like the very end of a long and winding tunnel. “Oh, my darling boy, what have you done?”_

_He couldn’t say, and he didn’t know, but he was starting to hope that maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t ruined everything._

~~**~~

The bedroom was silent, the afternoon sliding into the dark embrace of evening. Crowley was pressed, toes to chin, into Aziraphale’s warmth, Aziraphale’s arms were snug around him, holding him close, fusing them together, his mere presence soothing to the rabbiting of Crowley’s heart. And he was thinking, Crowley could almost hear that clever mind of his as it ticked through everything Crowley had told him, sorting it, cataloguing in, making it make sense to him.

Crowley had his own theories, but he had to let Aziraphale work out his, he had to hear that they had landed on the same page.

“She wasn’t referring to me,” the angel’s voice was soft, thinking aloud more than in conversation. “The punishment, the admonishment, none of it was addressed to me,” he looked down at the demon on his chest, “to us.” Crowley remained silent, letting the angel puzzle it all out, letting him come to the inevitable conclusion on his own. “It was Gabriel, wasn’t it? And she said it, didn’t she? Didn’t she, Crowley? She told us that he will leave us alone from now on in – that they all will. Oh, darling,” Aziraphale’s hands pressed his head even more securely into the angel’s chest. “That’s what she was saying, wasn’t she? That we’re free? Yes? That’s right, isn’t it?”

Crowley smiled into all that warm skin, how could he not when the angel was so effervescent in his joy? “That’s the way I heard it, too,” he answered quietly.

“Oh, yes, good, of course and now… But you, my darling, I still don’t understand what she did to you, why she hurt you.”

Crowley swallowed and waited, and closed his eyes and prayed, honestly prayed, that he wouldn’t lose it all when he was so very close to actually getting what he wanted. What he’d always, always wanted.

“Reparation she called it, yes?” Crowley nodded, his throat too knotted with tension to speak. “Reparation. _The action of making amends for a wrong one has done, by providing payment or other assistance to those who have been wronged_ ,” the angel recited from memory. “Or, rather archaically, _the action of repairing something.”_ He paused, his fingers drifting soothingly through Crowley’s hair as he mulled. “It would be just like them to be incredibly archaic… reparation, repair, perhaps-”

He froze, and Crowley could almost hear the penny dropping. He closed his eyes, waiting to see how it would play out, reluctant to watch the expressions shifting across Aziraphale’s face, remembering their conversation in twilit field only too well; he was very unsure as to how well he would be able to handle the rejection at this moment in his existence.

“Crowley!” the angel’s tone was no help and Crowley kept his eyes firmly closed even as Aziraphale shifted them both, bodily lifting Crowley from his place on Aziraphale’s chest, holding him aloft by the shoulders even as he twisted onto his side, before settling him back onto the sheets, the duvet over them both, his hands firmly on the sharp corners of cheek bones. “Crowley,” there was a command in that word which Crowley ignored. “Crowley!” he pressed his eyes even more tightly closed. “Open your eyes, look at me, my dearest boy, please, look at me.”

He didn’t want to – he absolutely did not want to – but what could he do? How could he ignore that tone? That _please_? He opened his eyes, instantly flicked them down rather than into the face that was so close to his and heard Aziraphale’s huff of annoyance, even as the hands on his cheeks tugged him up again.

“Crowley, please let me see, let me look into your eyes. Lift up, please.”

Reluctantly, Crowley did, his own eyes watching Aziraphale’s pupils as they skipped from side to side, up and down, cataloguing every tiny nuance of the Hell-born orbs in front of him. Crowley watched the confusion in Aziraphale’s expression slide into comprehension and then into something else, something unclear, something – he swallowed, his heart twisting painfully under his sternum, into something far too much like an aching hurt.

He tugged away, unable to stand that hurt, that disappointment, focussing in on him and sat up, swinging his legs out of the bed, resting his elbows on his bony knees and sliding his hands over his face, over the evidence of the way he’d been changed yet again. Without his consent, yet again. In a way that Aziraphale was clearly troubled by, yet again. Jesus – why couldn’t he ever catch a break?

“Crowley,” a warm arm wound around his bare shoulders and he felt himself tugged into a broad, soft chest. “Darling – she returned your memories, yes?”

Crowley could only nod, heart too heavy for words.

“I can see them in your eyes. I can see all of those years, all of that hurt…”

Tears prickling his closed lids, Crowley pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes in desperation – he wasn’t going to cry again.

Aziraphale pulled him closer, kissed the side of his head. “I never wanted that for you,” he whispered. “I never wanted them back if they were going to hurt you all over again.”

Beneath his palms, Crowley pondered his words. “At first, you wanted me like this, wanted me to be able to remember all that we’ve been to each other since those first rains on the wall of Eden. But then, you _didn’t_ want me to remember – you preferred me free of all the horrors and sorrows I’ve never been able to throw off.” He felt Aziraphale starting to protest and held up his hand for silence, for time. He lifted his hands away, addressed the carpet, his heart heavy. “And now? What do you want, angel? What would you prefer? I can be anything you want me to be, remember whatever it is you need me to. We’re free now, properly free, and I will not spoil our moment by being the wrong version of what you need.”

That was all there was to say, that was all he had, the ball was in the angel’s court now, but the words had barely left his lips when Aziraphale was on the move, dropping to his knees in the gap between Crowley’s legs, reaching up again to thread his fingers into that unruly red hair, bringing their foreheads together, pressing a kiss to the tip of Crowley’s nose. “Oh, my most beautiful darling,” Crowley swallowed at the weight of emotion woven through those few words. “I am so sorry that I have continued to give you cause to doubt me, not when my love for you, my intentions for us are so very ardent and so very clear to me.”

At that, Crowley had to let his eyes slide shut once more. That may be true, that may have _been_ true, but what of now? Thanks to dear Uriel, Crowley remembered it all so very clearly, the ‘ _Get thee behind me, foul fiend’,_ the _, ‘I don’t even like you_ ’, there were so many, where should he even start? Where should he even end? ‘ _You are Fallen’, ‘Friends? We aren’t friends!’, ‘Go off together? Listen to yourself!’, ‘There is no our side_!’, _‘Fraternising!’, ‘He’s not my friend’, ‘We are an angel and a demon!’. ‘You go too fast for me, Crowley.’_

He remembered it all, that dance they did, Crowley edging forward, Aziraphale slamming the door in his face and then spending the rest of the century enticing him in again. What did the angel want? _What did he want_? And, more importantly, how could Crowley be it? How could he have ever thought that remembering their exhausting dalliance would make anything actually make sense for him?

All that they’d done together in this last year, all the words and the touches and the loving they had done, was that just supposed to wipe everything else, all of that _shit_ , clean was it???

“Yes.”

Aziraphale’s voice, sure and solid and calm, startled Crowley out of his spiralling path of self-destruction and he hadn’t even realised he’d hissed his pain out loud.

“Yes, it is supposed to wipe _all_ of that shit away,” the angel reiterated. “I never wanted you with memories, I never wanted you without – I just wanted _you_ , Crowley, just you. Yes, I wanted you whole and happy, and happy to be with me, be aside from that… I just want you to be _happy_ , darling, and, we were, and I was worried that, if you ever did get your memories back then you would remember all of your pain, remember all of _our_ pain – and then just not love me anymore.”

“What?” Crowley dropped to his own knees so that he could press up against his angel once more, wind them both together, pull the angel ever closer. “Angel. _Aziraphale_. I have loved you since the very first day we met. Do you really think that there is anything in all of Creation that could ever make me stop?”

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale buried his face in Crowley’s neck and Crowley could feel him pressing kisses onto his skin in between words. “Oh, Crowley, my darling, my precious boy, I love you so very much.”

_This is easier_ , Crowley thought as the angel pressed him back into the bed with the force of his kiss. _This is easier than talking about it all._ He’d always been a practical kind of demon; keener on the doing rather than the talking. Maybe he could do this too – maybe they both could. And maybe, if they did it _together_ , then they could keep each other on the straight and narrow, keep each other from getting lost, from wandering alone into another time or another place without the other. There had been far too much of that, lately – and Crowley really liked to think that, yes, they absolutely could.

~~**~~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End! 
> 
> Just the epilogue to go :)


	33. Epilogue 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final loose ends! Thank you to everyone who has read or commented - it's been wonderful fun! Look after yourself everyone :)
> 
> ________________________

Epilogue One

In the wide expanse of nothingness that was Heaven, a single angel walked the corridors, her white trouser suit, at times, rendering her almost invisible against the white of the walls and the ceilings and the floors. She walked with a purpose, but had the edge of the furtive about her, constantly scanning backwards and forwards, her shrewd eyes jumping from stairwell to corner to lift door as she hurried on her way.

It appeared that her paranoia had been misplaced, however, as she reached her final destination unmolested. One last glance up and down to check that she wasn’t been watched and then she moved, finding a door handle hidden in all that white, twisting it in her hand and letting it swing open towards her, before sliding through the gap and sealing all the evidence of a door away with a quick ripple of her fingers.

The room she stepped into was white but there appeared to be a soft breeze blowing through as if it were outdoors. Her trouser suit was now a robe, the muted glow of a halo shone around her head and she stopped, cocking her head slightly, as if listening, before turning to her left and walking determinedly across the nothingness.

She had walked for a few minutes when another figure appeared before her and then she stopped, close enough to observe, not close enough to engage.

The second figure was also in white, but seated on the floor, his legs from the knees down, lost in the drifting whiteness as if dangling in water. In his hands was a fishing rod, the line also lost in the swirling floor, and he was humming, a jolly, if tuneless, ditty as he sat and he fished and he stared into the nothingness.

His visitor seemed to be taking great pains to keep out of his line of sight, but she did lean forward, her keen eyes scanning the air above his head, the air which, on her own head, carried the muted glow of her halo. There was nothing above the head of the fisherman, nothing but his impeccably styled hair and his constant humming.

For a moment, a look of wretched sorrow washed across the visitor’s face, but she quickly schooled it all away again, turning on her heel and marching back through the nothing even as the fisherman continued to swing his legs through the floor and hum and twitch his rod in a hopefully expectant manner.

The door appeared once more and, without a backwards glance, the first angel went through it, sealing it behind her and, trouser-suited once more, click-clicking herself back the way she had come.

~~**~~


	34. Epilogue 2

Epilogue Two

In the warmth of an Autumn evening, a single angel stepped out through the rear door of a cottage in the South Downs, the cream of his trousers and the blue of his shirt a reflection of the warm, earthy tones picked out in the render and the paintwork of the cottage. He walked down the first lawn with a purpose, winding his way between the windfall apples and the gently swinging hammock, but his eyes were jumping around the garden, scanning backwards and forwards across the flowers, up and down the lines vegetables, his shrewd eyes jumping from conifer to hydrangea, to summer house to pond as he meandered along his way.

He was obviously searching for something as, when he reached the fence which looked out to the distant cliff and the line of the horizon far in the distance, he stopped and turned around on the spot, hands on his hips, eyes skipping from one side on the garden to the other. His eyes alighted on the rickety potting shed, standing under the shade of a spreading oak on the other side of the tumbledown wall which made up their eastern boundary and, with a smile, headed that way, his hand closing in the ancient wooden door handle, twisting it and letting it swing open towards him, before sliding through the gap and closing it once more with a quick ripple of his fingers.

The room he stepped into was gloomy, but led on into a side aspect which was completely glazed and south facing, the top windows propped open to allowed the soft evening breeze to blow through. In the gloom, the muted glow of a halo shone around his head and he stopped, cocking his head slightly, as if listening, before turning left and stepping silently into the attached greenhouse.

He had barely rounded the edge of the bench, when another figure appeared before him and then he stopped, close enough to observe, close enough to touch.

The second figure was dressed in faded back jeans and a scruffy old t-shirt in a deep shade of plum. He was knelt on the floor, leaning over a Growbag, picking tiny seeds from the compost with filthy but delicately long fingers, dropping them all, oh, so carefully, into a little pot at his side. His red hair was also streaked in mud and fell forward as he worked, and a stripe of bare skin was showing above the waistband of his jeans where his t-shirt had ridden up. Under his breath, he was humming the rousing melody of _Carmina Burana_ as he worked, methodically fishing for the seeds with which he could renew the cycle of life all over again. 

His visitor seemed to be taking great pains to keep out of his line of sight for now, but he did lean forward, his keen eyes scanning the bare patch of skin above his jeans, his smile flickering at the smudges of dirt he could see there, marring the perfectly white skin. In the last rays of the golden sun, his hair seemed to shine a burnished copper with golden motes dancing above him, almost like the merest suggestion of a halo of his own.

For a moment, a look of absolute adoration washed across the visitor’s face, but he quickly schooled it all away again as he crept forward, casting just the slightest of silencing miracles as he dropped to his knees behind his diligently working counterpart, leaning in, bending down, pressing a kiss into all that precious skin and then springing back, laughter lighting up his face as his presence was discovered and a, “Fucking hell, angel!” hissed out into the quiet of the afternoon.

Fifteen minutes later, the door to the potting shed opened once more and, without a backwards glance, the two figures went through it, sealing it behind them. Red-cheeked and dirty-kneed, they headed back towards the cottage, straightening and re-tucking their clothing as they walked, smiling hopelessly at each other as they wondered aloud whether the first gin and tonic of the evening should be served with lime or lemon slices.

~~**~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - the final Epilogue is very short! :)


	35. Epilogue 3

Epilogue Three

In a corner of Heaven with the best views and the least traffic, a single and most fundamental of all beings sat and looked around Her, Her gaze sliding from the bee-laden garden to the white room and back again. Eventually, She nodded to herself and leaned back in her IKEA chair, legs up on the matching footstool, a satisfied expression on her face. _Yes_ , She thought to Herself, _that will do_.

END!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much again. If you enjoyed this then please try one of my other GO fics:
> 
> Remains https://archiveofourown.org/works/21017792  
> or  
> Warmth https://archiveofourown.org/works/22330660
> 
> I'm starting an entry for the Mystery Omens event as soon as I nail down a plot - hope to see you then!   
> Indigo x


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